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A NOVEL. 




^L5A5Ly-VA-, P 




BY MRS. HENRY WOOD. 


AUTHOR OF ‘‘EAST LYNNE,” “BESSY RANE,” “GEORGE CANTERBURY’S WILL,” “ROLAND YORKE,” 
“ THE CHANNINGS,” “ SHADOWY OF ASULYDYAT,” “ YERNER’S PRIDE,’ “ RED COURT FARM,” 
“OSAVALD CRAY,” “ ST. MARTIN’S EVE,” “SQUIRE TREYLYN’S HEIR; OR, TREYLYN HOLD,” 
“LORD OAKBURN’S DAUGHTERS; OR, THE EARL’S HEIRS,” “THE LOST BANK NOTE,” 
“THE CASTLE’S HEIR; OR, LADY ADELAIDE’S OATH,” “THE HAUNTED TOWER,” 
“MILDRED ARKELL,” “THE MYSTERY,” “A LIFE’S SECRET,” “THE LOST WILL,” 
“ORVILLE COLLEGE,” “ LIGHT AND DARK CHRISTMAS,” “WILLIAM ALLAIR,” 

“ELSTER’S FOLLY,” “ THE RUNAW^AY MATCH,” “FOGGY NIGHT AT OFFORD.” 


Printed from the author’s Manuscript and advanced Proof-sheets, purchased 
by us from Mrs. Henry Wood, and issued here simultaneously 
with the publication of the work in Europe. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

T. B. PETERSON & BEOTH.ERS; 

3 0 6 CHESTNUT STREET. 


Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by 
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. 


MRS. HENRY WOOFS NOVELS. 

DENE HOLLOW. A Novel. One volume, octavo. Price $1.50 in paper 
cover, or $1.75 in cloth. 

BESSY RANE. A Novel. One volume, octavo. Price $1.50 in paper cover, 
or $1.75 in cloth. 

^HE CHANNINGS. A DOMESTIC NOVEL iN REAL LIFE. One vol- 
^ ume, octavo. Price $1.50 in paper cover, or $1.75 in cloth. 

ROLAND YORKE. A Sequel to “THE CHANNINGS.” One volume, 
octavo. Price $1.50 in paper cover, or $1.75 in cloth. 

THE CASTLE’S HEIR ; or, LADY ADELAIDE’S OATH. One volume, 
octavo. Price $1.50 in paper cover, or $1.75 in cloth. 
GEORGE CANTERBURY’S WILL. One volume, octavo. Price $1.50 in 
paper cover, or $1.75 in cloth. 

SQUIRE TREVLYN’S HEIR ; or, TREVLYN HQLD. One volume, 
octavo. Price $1.50 in paper cover, or $1.75 in cloth. 
VERNER’S PRIDE. A Tale of Domestic Life. One volume, octavo. Price 
$1.50 in paper cover, or $1.75 in cloth. 

OSWALD CRAY. One volume, octavo. Price $1.50 in paper cover, or $1.75 
in cloth. 

THE SHADOW OF ASHLYDYAT. One volume, octavo. Price $1.50 in 
paper cover, or $1.75 in cloth. 

LORD OAKBURN’S DAUGHTERS; or, THE EARL’S HEIRS. One vol- 
ume, octavo. Price $1.50 in paper cover, or $1.75 in cloth. 
ELSTER’S FOLLY. One volume, octavo. Price $1.50 in paper cover, or 
$1.75 in cloth. 

ST. MARTIN’S EVE. One volume, octavo. Price $1.50 in paper cover, or 
$1.75 in cloth. 

THE RED COURT FARM. One volume, duodecimo. Price $1.50 in paper 
cover, or $1.75 in cloth. 

MILDRED ARKELL. One volume, duodecimo. Price $1.50 in paper cover, 
or, $1.75 in cloth. 

The following volumes are all issued in Octavo Form. 

THE MYSTERY. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.00 in cloth. 

A LIFE’S SECRET. Price 50 cents in paper cover, or $1.00 in cloth. 

'' THE LOST BANK NOTE, and Martyn Ware\s Temptation. Price 75 cents. 
THE RUNAWAY MATCH, and THE DEAN OF DENHAM. Price 50 cents. 
THE LOST WILL, and THE DIAMOND BRACELET. Price 50 cents. 
THE HAUNTED TOWER. Price 50 cents. 

ORVILLE COLLEGE. Price 50 cents. 

A LIGHT AND A DARK CHRISTMAS. Price 25 cents. 

WILLIAM ALLAIR. Price 25 cents. 

THE FOGGY NIGHT AT OFFORD. Price 25 cents. 

The above books are for sale by all Booksellers. Copies of any one or all of 
the above books will be sent per mail, postage pre-paid, to any part of the United 
States, on receipt of the price of the ones wanted, by the Publishers, 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 

. 306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa. 



■ . n 

> 

i . 

CONTENTS. 


Chapter 

L— SIR DENE, 21 

II.— HAREBELL FARM, 27 

IIL— MARIA OWEN, 33 

IV.— THE SHADOW ON THE HOLLOW, 39 

, V.— IN ST. PETER’S CHURCH, 45 

VI. —ENCOUNTERING THE STORM, 53 

VIL— JONATHAN DREW’S MIDNIGHT RIDE, 57 

VIIL— SIR DENE’S PERPLEXITY, 63 

IX.— THE BAILIFF’S LODGE, . 68 

X.— IN THE SAME SPOT, 73 

XI.— THE MORNING DREAM, 75 

XIL— AT THE TRAILING INDIAN, 81 

XIIL— HAREBELL POND, 90 

XIV. -ONLY SADNESS, 93 

XV.— SEEN BY MOONLIGHT, ’ 98 

XVI. -VERY MUCH OF A WAIF, 103 

XVIL— GUESTS AT BEECHHURST DENE, 108 

XVIII.— FRIGHTENING THE PONY, •. 114 

XIX.— MISS MAY, 120 

XX.— DRIVEN FROM HAREBELL FARM, 127 

XXI.— AFTER THE LAPSE OF YEARS, 133 

XXIL— SIR DENE’S REPENTANCE, 138 

XXIII.— SENT TO THE TRAILING INDIAN, 144 

XXIV.— MISS EMMA GEACH, 150 

XXV.— AN EVENTFUL EVENING, 157 

XXVI.— AT SIR DENE’S SECRETAIRE, 165 

XXVII.— BACK FROM BRISTOL, 171 

XXVIIL— MISS EMMA GONE, 177 

XXIX.— SELLING OUT, 181 

XXX.— BETTER TO HAVE LET THE DOUBT LIE, . 185 


( 19 ) 


20 


CONTENTS 


Chapter Paob 

XXXI.— SEEN THROUGH THE VENETIAN BLINDS, 193 

XXXII.— BEEN WITH THE OLD SQUIRE IN THE NIGHT, .... 109 

XXXIII.— OVER THE CLARET CUP, 204 

- XXXIV,— AN ARRIVAL AT THE TRAILING INDIAN, ^208 

XXXV.— THE SNOW STORM, 213 

XXXVL— AT BEECHHURST DENE, 218 

XXXVIL— A DISH OF TEA AT THE FORGE, 223 

XXXVIIL— THE WEDDING DAY, 229 

XXXIX.— THE LAST OF RANDY BLACK, 235 

XL.— WITH SIR DENE, 243 

XLL— THE ORDERING OF HEAVEN, 248 

XLIL— THE NEW MASTER, 253 

XLIII.— CONCLUSION, .259 


DENE HOLLOW 


# 


CHAPTER I. 

SIR DENE. 

A FAIR scene. Hone fairer through- 
out this, the fairest of all the Midland 
counties. Winter had turned. The 
blue of the sky was unbroken ; the sun- 
shine shed down its bright and cheering 
warmth : it was the first day of real 
spring. 

Standing on a somewhat elevated road, 
as compared with the ground in front, 
was a group of gentlemen, talking earn- 
estly and noticing critically the points of 
the landscape immediately around. They 
stood with their backs to the iron gates 
of the lodge ; gates that gave admittance 
to a winding avenue leading^up to a fine 
old seat, Beechhurst Dene. Before them 
— the ground descending slightly, so that 
they looked down on it and saw all the 
panorama — were sunny plains and groves 
of towering trees, and sparkling rivulets ; 
a farm-house here and there imparting 
life to the picture. The little village of 
Hurst Leet (supposed to be a corruption 
of Hurst Hamlet) lay across, somewhat 
towards the right, as they gazed. Be- 
yond it, at two or three miles’ distance, 
was the city of Worcester, its cathedral 
very conspicuous on this clear day, as 
well as the tapering spire of St. Andrew. 
Amidst other features of the beautiful 
scenery, the eye, sweeping around the 
distant horizon on all sides, caught the 
long chain of the Malvern Hills, the 
white houses (very few in those days) 
nestling at their base like glittering sea 
shells amidst moss. The hills, rising up 
there, looked very close, not much further 
off than Worcester. They were more 


than double the distance — and iU a 
totally opposite direction. Nothing is 
more deceiving than perspective. 

A quick walker, taking the fields and 
the stiles ; that is, direct as the crow 
flies ; might walk to the village of 
Hurst Leet in ten minutes from the 
lodge gates of Beechhurst Dene. But 
if he went by the road — as he must do 
if he had either horse or vehicle — it 
would take him very considerably longer, 
for it 'was a round-about way, part of 
it very hilly. He would have to turn 
to his left (almost as though he were 
going from the village instead of to it) 
and sweep round quite three parts of a 
circle : in short make verj’- much like 
what Tony Lumpkin calls a circumbend- 
ibus. The question, occupying these 
gentlemen, was, whether a straighter 
and nearer road should not be cut, 
chiefly for the accommodation of the 
family residing at Beechhurst Dene., 

The chief of the group, and most 
conspicuous of it, was Beechhurst 
Dene’s owner — Sir Dene Clariwaring. 
By the Clanwaring family — and conse- 
quently b}^ others — it was invariably 
pronounced Clannering: indeed some 
of the branches had long spelt it so. 
Sir Dene was a tall, fine man of fifty 
years ; his features were noble and com- 
manding, his complexion was fresh and 
healthy. He was of fairly good family, 
but nothing verij great or grand, and 
had won his baronetcy for himself after 
making his fortune in India. Eortunes 
were made in those by-gone days, when 
the East India Company was flourish- 
ing, quicker than they are in these. It 
was nothing for the soldier, resident 


00 


DENE HOLLOW. 


there for long years, to unite with his 
duties the civilian’s pursuits, so far as 
niouey-inaking ^yent ; and Dene Clan- 
Waring had been one who did this. He 
was a brave man, had won fame as well 
as money, and at a comparatively early 
age he returned home for good, with a 
large fortune and a baronetcy. People 
told fabulous tales of his wealth — as is 
s.ure to be the case — augmenting it to a 
few millions. He himself could have 
testified that it was about six thousand 
pounds a year, all told. 

Looking out, on his return from India, 
for some desirable place to settle down 
in for life, chance directed Sir Dene 
Clan waring to Beechhurst Dene. 
Whether it was the estate itself that 
r^tra^' dm, or whether it was the ac- 
tidental fact that it bore his own name. 
Dene, certain it was that Sir Dene 
searched no farther. He purchased it at 
once, entailing it on his eldest son, John 
Ingram Clanwaring, and his heirs for 
ever. 

Shortly after entering into possession 
of it, his wife. Lady Clanwaring, died. 
Sir Dene — standing there in the road 
before us to-day — is, as may be seen, in 
deep mourning. It is worn for her. He 
was ver}' fond of her and the loss was 
keenly felt. Close by his side, is his 
second son, Geofirey ; a tall, fair, golden- 
haired, pleasant-iooking young fellow, 
who is in black also. Near to them, 
bends an old and curious-looking little 
man, very thin and undersized ; his hard 
features are pinched, his few gray hairs 
scanty. It is Squire Arde of the Hall. 
He wears a suit of pepper-and-salt ; 
breeches, waistcoat, gaiters, and coat ; 
with silver knee and shoe-buckles, and a 
white beaver hat. Over his clothes, is a 
drab great coat of some fluffy material, 
but the Squire has thrown it quite back, 
and it seems to lodge on the tips of his 
narrow shoulders. The onlj- other indi- 
vidual, completing the party, is Jonathan 
Drew, Sir Dene’s bailiff; a hard man 
also, but a faithful, trustworthy servant. 
Sir Dene took him over from the previ- 
ous owner, Mr. Honeythorn, and had al- 
ready found his value. Drew managed 
the land and the tenants well; though 
complaints were murmured of his sever- 
ity. He was turned sixty ; a lean may- 
pole of a man, in a long fustian coat and 
high-crowned brown hat, looking alto- 
gether not unlike a scarecrow in a corn- 


field. The bailiff was uncommonly 
ugly ; and appeared at the present mo- 
ment more so than usual, from an access 
of ill-temper : which is plainly percepti- 
ble, as he addresses his master. 

“ ‘ Make my duty to Sir Dene, Mr. 
Drew, please, and tell him that I can’t 
be turned out of my house nohow ; I’ve 
got the paper,’ says she to me. ‘ Then 
why don’t you perduce the paper, Mrs. 
Barber?’ says I, bantering at her. 

‘ ’Cause I can’t find it, sir; I’ve mislaid 
it,’ goes on she. ‘ Mivslaid what you’ve 
never had,’ says I, as I flung away from 
her. And she never did have it. Sir 
Dene,” wound up Drew ; “ don’t believe 
it, sir. Obstinate old granny ! ” 

“ When she sees that there are other 
cottages to be had ; when she knows 
that it will be to the advantage of all 
her neighbors, I must sa}’’ that I think 
it is unreasonable of her to refuse to go 
out,” remarked Sir Dene, his brow con- 
tracted, his face severe just then. Ac- 
customed all his life to command, he 
brooked not opposition to his will. 

“ Onreasonable, Sir Dene ! ” echoed 
Drew. “ It’s a sight worse nor onrea- 
sonable : it’s vicious.” 

The new road, that Sir Dene purposed 
making to the village, had been the sub- 
ject of much planning and consideration 
between himself and his agent. Drew. 
One or two sites had been thought of ; 
but the best attainable — there could 
be no doubt^f it — the most convenient 
and the shortest, was one that would 
open nearlj’’ immediately opposite his 
own gates. The line that would have 
to be cut through was his own property, 
every field of it, every hedge : and a 
foot- path w'ay, for a part of the road, 
seemed to point out its desirability. If 
they cut in this line, it would be at 
quite -a third less cost, both as to money 
and trouble, than an}^ other. Natuially 
Sir Dene ‘wished it to be fixed upon; 
and Drew, who was red-hot on the new 
scheme, knowing it must improve the 
property, would not tolerate any com- 
plaints against it. 

But there was an obstacle. About a 
hundred yards down the path just men- 
tioned, stood a cottage of the better 
class: a dwelling of five rooms, with 
masses of yellow jessamine climbing up 
its outer walls. It had once belonged to 
a small farmer-proprieto'r of the name 
of Barber. He had died in early life 


. \ 


SIR DENE. 


23 


(a great many years ago now), leaving a 
widow and two daughters. His affairs 
were found to be in disorder — that is, lie 
had died in hopeless debt. The widow 
and daughters took immediate steps to 
extricate themselves and uphold tlieir 
late father’s integrity. The cottage 
with 'the bit of land attaching it was 
sold to Mr. Honeythorn, then the owner 
of Beechhurst Dene, who had been long 
wishing to possess it. Widow Barber 
remained in the occupancy of the 
dwelling and one field as tenant, paying 
an eas}’- yearl}' rent: and she said that 
Mr. Honeythorn had given her a paper, 
or covenant, promising that she should 
not be turned out wliile she lived. 

To make the road in the track con- 
templated by Sir Dene, this cottage 
would have to come down, for the line 
ran right through it. Drew, acting for 
Sir Dene, served Mrs. Barber with a for- 
mal notice to quit. Mrs. Barber met it 
by a verbal refusal (civilly and tearfully 
delivered) to go out; and an assertion 
to the above effect : namely, that she 
held the granted right to stay in the 
cottage for the term of her natural life, 
and that she posse.ssed a paper in Mr. 
Honey thorn's own writing to confirm 
this right. In fact, this paper alone 
constituted her right : for nothing in 
relation to it had been found amidst Mr. 
Honeytlioru’s effects, though his execu- 
tors had searched minutely. Jonathan 
Drew told Mrs. Barber to hjj^r face that 
there had never been any such paper, 
save in her imagination : Mrs. Barber 
had retaliated, not onlj^ that there was 
such a paper, but that Drew knew of it 
as well as she did ; and that be had 
known of it at the time it was given. 
However, Mrs. Barber, search as she 
would, could not find this paper : she 
had either lost or mislaid it ; or else had 
never possessed it. Matters therefore 
stood at this point : and Mrs. Barber 
retained tlie notice to quit at Lady-Day 
— which was fast approaching. 

The affair had vexed Sir Dene ; it 
was at length beginning't^ enrage him. 
Full}’’ persuaded — partly by Drew, partly 
by the fact of absolute non-evidence — 
that no such right had ever been con- 
ceded to the widow Barber, he could 
• not see why the old woman’s obstinacy 
should be let stand in the way of his 
plans. One dwelling-liouse was surel}' as 
good for her as another ! But he had not 


quite fully decided on this thing : he 
was standing out there now, talking it 
over with his son and Drew, with a view 
to arrive at some decision. Squire Arde 
had come up accidentally. 

“ It would be but the work of a 
month or two,” cried Sir Dene in his 
enthusiasm, standing with his arms on 
the -fence, and looking across to the 
village. “ See, Mr." Arde, it seems but 
a stone’s throw.” 

“And nothing in the way of it but' 
that dratted cottage !” put in Jonathan 
Drew. 

Geoffry Cl an waring was sending his 
good-natured blue eyes roving here and 
there in the landscape, apparently in 
thought. Presently he addressed his 
father. 

“Would it not be possible, sir, to 
carry the cutting a few yards on this 
side, (moving his right hand), and so 
leave the cottage standing ? ” 

“Ho,” replied Sir Dene. “The road 
shall be cut straight ; or not at all.” 

“ If you was to make a in-and-out 
road, like a dog’s leg, as good stick to 
the old un, Mr. Geoffry,” spoke uyj 
Drew. “ Besides, there’d be the stream 
in the way lower down. Ho : there 
ain’t no line but this — and Sir Dene ’ll 
hardly let a pig-headed old widow stand 
in tJie light of it.” 

“ There’s the smoke a sprouting out 
of her chimney,” struck in Squire Arrle 
, — who in familiar life was not very 
particular in his mode' of speech, after 
the fashion of many country gentlemen 
of the period. 

“A biling of h?r pot for dinner!” 
cried Drew. “ Miserable old cat ! ” 

“ I mind me that something was said 
about that paper at the time,” resumed 
the Squire. 

“ What paper ? ” asked Sir Dene, 
sharply. * 

“ The one given her by Honeythorn.” 

Sir Dene drew a long breath. He 
would never have committed an injustice 
in the teeth of facts. 

“ TFas such a paper given to her ? ” 

“ I don’t kqow myself,” replied 
Squire Arde, gazing out at the smoke 
with his watery eyes. “ Some talk on’t 
was abroad. ’Twas said Tom Barber’s 
widow had got such a paper — had got it 
out of Honeythorn. On t’other hand, 
it might lia’ been all lies. Drew, here, 
ought to know which way ’twas.” 


24 


DENE HOLLOW. 


I’ve told Sir Dene -u’hich way ’tvvas 
— that there warn’t none,” spoke Drew, 
tilting his hat up on his bald head. 
“ Mr. Honeythorn did nothing o’ that 
kind without rne — not likely to. And 
if he had — put it that way : ought it to 
he binding on Sir Dene ? Whj’ in 
course not. Old Granny Barber’s one o’ 
them cantankerous idiots that thinks no- 
body’s turn is to be serv^ed but their own.” 

“Well, 1 must be going — or I shall 
not get there and home again by two 
o’clock, and that’s my dinner hour,” 
observed the Squire, pulling his white 
coat forward over his contracted chest. 
“ I’ve got a goose to pluck with Black, 
up at the Trailing Indian. He was seen 
in my woods a night or two ago : and 
he’ll have to tell me the reason wh3\” 

Drew threw back his long neck in a 
kind of mocker3^ “ If you can keep 
Kandy Black out o’ your woods, Squire, 
you’ll be cleverer nor other people.” 

“Well, I’m going up to him to have 
a try at it,” was the old man’s answer. 
“ Good day to ye. Sir Dene.” 

“A moment yet, Squire Arde,” said 
the baronet, detaining him. “ Tell me 
truly what j'our opinion on this subject 
is. Should I turn the old woman out, 
or not ? ” 

But the curious little man seemed to 
shrink into himself at the question ; to 
become smaller than ever, if that were 
possible : as he avoided Sir Dene with a 
shake of the head. 

“ No, no. Sir Dene Clanwaring — no 
good to ask me. I’ve lived long enough 
to know that to thrust one’s finger into 
'one’s neighbor’s pie brings often nothing 
but heartburning in the long run. If 
I said to you ‘ turn her out,’ and you 
came to repent of it later, why 3mu’d 
lay the blame on me. ‘ Arde advised 
me,’ 3 0u’d be muttering to yourself 
night and morning, and give me any- 
thing but a blessing. Take t’other 
view. If I said to 3^11 ‘ Don't turn her 
out; make the road elsewhere,’ and jmu 
• took the advice, you’d be ever hankering 
after this track that you’d missed. The 
cottage would become an eyesore : you’d 
call yourself a fool, and a double fool, to 
have been guided by old Arde. No, no. 
You must act upon your own judgment. 
Sir Dene; not mine. It’s nothing to me. 
The old roads have done for me m3’’ time, 
and the3’’ll do to the end. Good da3\” 

He moved away with brisk steps to- 


wards the left, stooping forward, as was 
his wont. Another minute, and thera 
met him three individuals : a gentleman 
and two }’oung ladies. At least, if 
a gentleman, at the first sight he looked 
like one. It was Kobert Owen ; a 
farmer who had but recently come to 
live in the neighborhood, rentir#^ a farm 
of Sir Dene’s. He was of notable ap- 
pearance. Sir Dene was a handsome 
man, but* not so handsome as Robert 
Owen. He would have been of distin- 
guished presence amidst kings. Of 
noble height, slender and upright, his 
face, with its clearl3’-cut features of the 
highest t3’pe, its pure complexion, bright 
even yet as a woman’s, and its very dark 
blue eyes, presented a picture beautiful 
to look upon. But what caused him to 
be more remarkable than aught else, 
was the fact that he had a soft, silvery 
white beard, falling over his white top 
coat : and in those da3’S beards were 
very uncommon. In years he might 
have numbered about as many as Sir 
Dene. His two daughters had inherited 
liis beauty — but not his height. Lovely 
girls they were, with dimpled, blushing 
cheeks, and of modest, simple, retiring 
manners, generally called, both in this 
neighborhood and the one they had left, 

“ the prett3’’ Miss Owens.” IMaiy, the 
elder of them, had been a wife for some 
months now : George Arde, a relative of 
the Squire’s, had married her. Maria, 
the younger, was Miss Owen still. 

“How do 3’e do, Owen?” cried the 
Squire, carelessl3". 

Robert Owen touched his hat as he 
answered that he was well — and “ hoped 
the Squire was.” None could be more 
sensible than he of the social distance 
that lay between him and Squire Arde : 
he was but a humble, working farmer. 
The jmung ladies stood blushing : Mary 
not venturing to speak, unless the 
Squire should first notice her. They 
wore hooded scarlet cloaks, the fashion 
in those days, and white straw gips3' 
hats, their beautiful brown hair falling 
in curls underneath. 

“ It’s you, is it ? ” cried he, nodding 
to Mary. “ How’s George ? ” 

“ He is quite well, thank you, sir,” 
she replied, with a slight curtse3^ 

Over here ? ” 

“No, sir. He is at home. My fa- 
ther, came into Worcester }’esterday and 
brought me back ; my mother is not 


SIR DENE. 


25 


well. George is coming over for me to- 
morrow.” 

With a slight general nod from the 
Squire, to which the j^ung ladies curt- 
sied and the farmer again touched his 
hat, thej^ pursued their respective wa3's. 
The footsteps caused Sir Dene and his 
party to turn their heads, which were 
still bent over the fence. Jonathan 
Drew vouchsafed an ungracious nod to 
tlie farmer; Sir Dene a more pleasant 
one ; but Geoffrey Clanwaring went up, 
spoke cordially to the farmer in his free, 
good-natured wnj^ and shook hands with 
Mrs. Arde and Maria Owen. 

It was but a slight episode. They 
went on, and Mr. Clanwaring returned 
to the fence again. 

Hut Sir Dene had become tired of 
standing still; perhaps a little tired of 
his indecision. Saying something about 
business at Hurst Leet, he suddenly 
turned alone down the narrow path 
before-mentioned — which would take 
him straight b}'’ the cottage in dispute. 

Perhaps few cottages could boast less 
of a look-out. This had none. The 
door nearlj' abutted on the path : 
tainl}^ there was not more than a yard 
and a half of ground between ; but that 
little space was redolent of sweet-scented 
gillyflowers — as they are called in Wor- 
cestershire. On the other side of the 
path, the bank rose as perpendicularly as/ 
though it had been'a cutting; a higji 
bank, whose elm trees, towering above 
it, threw the shadow of their branches 
over the cottage-roof. This fine grove 
of trees — which began at the top of the 
path, opposite Sir Dene’s gates — was the 
pride of Sir Dene’s heart. He’d not 
have had any one of the trees cut down 
for the world. The cottage — as Sir 
Dene walked — lay on his right hand, the 
bank and trees on his left. The door 
was standing open as he passed, and he 
caught a vision^ of a plump old woman 
inside it in grey stockings, who was 
stooping to skim a pan of cream in the 
passage. 

Old mother Barber,” said Sir Dene 
to himself. 

Old mother Barber,” hearing the 
footsteps, looked up. When she saw 
whose they were, a tremor, as if an ice- 
shaft darted through her heart, took 
her, and she ran into her kitchen like a 
frightened hare. She wore a short black 
gown of rough flannel cloth, its sleeves 


cut off at the elbow; a cotton print 
handkerchief crossed upon her shoulders, 
the ends, back and front, confined under 
her check apron, and a mob-cap tied 
round with black ribbon, the bow in 
front. What little hair could be seen, 
was gray. A cleanlj’^-looking, but timor- 
ous old woman, five or six years past 
seventy. To be turned out of the cot- 
tage, in which she had been born, and 
had lived all her life, seemed ^o her the 
very worst evil that could by possibility 
fall on her in this world. The old cling 
to their resting places; and it is in the 
nature of age to exaggerate evils. 

The kitchen window looked out upon 
a fair scene: it was just as pleasant as 
the front was dull : sunny plains near, 
Worcester iii fhe distance. Morning 
after morning, as that old woman awoke, 
her eyes had fallen on the familiar Mal- 
vern hills (for she could catch a glimpse 
of them slantwise from her front cham- 
ber), on the white dots of houses under- 
neath themj^'glistening in the early sun, 
and on the^loping vale of wood and dale 
descend irtg in one great expanse. 

^ Lord be good to me ! ” slie murmured, 
her hands crossed upon her bosom, that 
was bea^g so fast underneath the 
cott^iU'^^iandkerchief. “ Let not my poor 
homestead be ’reft from meit while I 
IfveJ ” 

Her glance fell on her cherished out- 
door belongings: on the one pig in the 
st}' ; on the coVv in the meadow, by 
whose produce, the milk, she was helped 
to live ; on the patch of cabbage and 
potato ground. The brook, winding 
along nearl}' close to her back door (and 
which brook perhaps caused Sir Dene’s 
difficulty in regard to taking the road a 
few yards further off, as his son had sug- 
gested, for the water, widening into a 
stream lower down to feed the mill, 
might not be interfered with) was danc- 
ing. in the sun, its gentle murmurings 
falling lightly on the ear. Time had 
been when that murmuring soothed her 
to peace : latterljq since this horrible 
fear had oppressed her, it seemed to 
suggest nothing but woe. Suddenl}’-, 
another sound drowned it — a sharp 
knock as with a stick at the front door. 
Looking out of her kitchen, she saw Sir 
Dene. 

And whether she stood on her head or 
her heels, the poor woman could not 
have told had she lived to be a hundred. 


26 


DENE HOLLOW. 


The sight scared her senses away. At 
the most favorable of times, and wlien 
she was a younger woman, slie would liave 
been struck into incapability at the 
presence of a great man like Sir Dene 
Clanwaring: regarding him now as a 
powerful enemy, it increased the feeling 
ten-fold. Saying he had stepped back to 
speak to her, he walked, of his own ac- 
cord, into the open small front room, or 
parlor ; wjiich had a sanded floor, and a 
bright-painted tea-tra}'’ lodged against 
the side wall for ornament. She followed 
him in, curtseying and shaking visibly. 
Without any circumlocution. Sir Dene 
enquired whether she was in possession 
of the paper that she professed to be. 

What with the abrupt question and 
its nature, what with her own startled 
fears, and her innate timidity, Mrs. Bar- 
ber behaved like a lunatic. She could 
get out no answer at all. AVhen it did 
come, it was strangely hesitating, and 
given ill a whisper. 

She “believed” she had got such a 
paper somewhere — and she hoped “ his 
honor ” would not be hard upon her. 

Sir Dene Clanwaring curled his lip. 
An honorable man himself, he regarded 
deception as the worst fault on earth. 
This old woman ^)Lefore him was shaking 
from head to foot; her speech and man- 
ner were alike uncertain, and he believed 
she was telling him a falsehood. From 
that moment, he regarded the plea she 
had put forth, not as a mistake on her 
part, but a pure invention. 

“ Look here, Mrs. Barber,” he said 
sternly. “ The road I purpose making 
will be of great benefit to myself and 
the public : it ought not to be stopped 
by any private interests. If you have 
the paper you speak of, bring it to me, 
and I will consider it — though I do not 
promise, and do not at present intend, 
mind, to be swayed by it. This is 
Tuesday : if, on Friday, I have not the 
papef before me, I shall give orders for 
the work to go on. Lady-Day will fall 
about a week afterwards: and I must 
request that you will be out of this on 
or before that day shall come. Good 
morning, ma’am.” 

She closed the door after him with 
trembling hands, when he had got to a 
proper distance. And then she sat 
down on the nearest seat — which hap- 
jjcned to be a milk-pail turned bottom 
upwards — and wiped her face with her 
apron. 


Sir Dene went on down the path. 
In a short while it widened considerably 
and branched off into the open fields. 
Had the cottage stood as low down as 
this, there would have been no absolute 
necessity to raze it. But — it stood 
where it did stand : nothing more could 
be made of it thaa that. Bearing to 
the right, and passing his bailiff’s house, 
which was nearly hidden amidst some 
trees. Sir Dene crossed a stile at the 
end of the field, and the village was 
before him, the church Ijdng rather far 
beyond it. As^ he was passing the 
village stocks (used often then), the 
village doctor^ James Friar — a little man 
in spectacles, who looked ten years 
older than his real age, which was but 
thirty — crossed his path. 

“ Have you decided about the new 
road, Sir Dene ? ” he asked, when they 
had talked for a minute or two. 

“ Yes ; in a week’s time from this 
you will see it begun,” was the baronet’s 
firm answer, as he pursued his way. 

Just a minute we must take to follow 
Drew, before closing the chapter. Not 
for any particular purpose as regards 
him, but to afford the reader a little 
more insight into the locality. 

Mr. Jonathan then, when his master 
quitted him, and Geoffrj' Clanwaring had 
disappeared within his father’s gates, • 
betook himself about his business. He 
pursued the road to the right — in the 
opposite direction to that taken by 
Squire Arde. About here it was solitar^^ 
enough — but he soon came to some farm- 
houses and cottages. Some half-mile, 
or more, from the gates of Beechhurst 
Dene, there stood back on the left a 
substantial stone house ; with good 
gardens and farm-buildings around it. 
This was Arde Hall. The road h ere was 
open, and the village underneath (under- 
neath, so to say, for the ground still 
sloped a little) could be more plainly 
seen. Here would have been the best 
spot to make the new road — if one mu&t 
have been made at all : but Squire Arde, 
to whom the ground belonged, would as 
soon have thought of making a bull-run. 
Jonathan Drew came to a standstill, as 
if tracing it out — for the road was 
what his thoughts were running upon. 

“ Ay, this ’ud ha’ been the right track 
to hollow it through,” ran his reflec- 
tions. “ Catch old Arde at it ! When 
Sir Dene does it, though, Arde wOnt be 
back’ard to reap the benefit. A down- 


HAREBELL FARM. 


27 


right good move, it’ll be for Sir Dene’s 
property. My old bones ’ll be spared a 
bit, too, when I can ride straight up, 
’stead o’ going round or trapesing it 
afoot. The Squire gets more niggardly 
as he gets older. Wonder who’ll come 
in for his savings — and his estate ? 
Shouldn’t wonder but he’ll leave all to 
a mad-house ! As to that cross-grained 
Granny Barber, who’s she, that she 
should put in her spoke again the pub- 
lic good ? One place is just as good as 
another, for the short time she’ll want a 
place at all. One foot must be in the 
grave now, and t’other hardly out on’t.” 

With this, Mr. Drefw brought his 
comments to a conclusion. There was a 
pathway down to the village from hence, 
just as there was nearer Beechhurst 
Dene ; and he appeared undecided 
whether or not to take it. But finally 
lie continued his way on the road. We 
need not follow him : the highway took 
a sudden turn just above here, and 
branched off, between rich pasture 
lands, and homesteads large and small, 
far away from Hurst Leet. 


CHAPTER II. 

HAREBELL FARM. 

In turning to the left, on emerging 
from the gates of Beechhurst Dene, the 
road continued to run in a tolerably 
straight line, for 'about the third of a 
mile. It then branched off, almost at 
right angles, in two directions : that to 
the right being the continuance of the 
road ; that to the left soon becoming 
notliing but a solitary lane. We may 
have occasion to follow the road later, so 
just now we will take the lane. 

As dismal and shadowy a place at 
night, this Harebell Lane, as you would 
care to enter. On the right, lying back, 
stood a very moderate-sized dwelling, 
with its fold-yard, ricks, and barns. 
This was Harebell Farm : in the occu- 
pancy of Robert Owen. Hot far on, on 
tlie left, were two wooden gates side by 
side ; one for carts, one for people on foot 
— they were the back entrance to Beech- 
hurst Dene. The land wound on, get- 
ting narrower and darker. Its banks 
were tolerably high ; its over-hanging 
trees shut out the daylight. But soon it 
widened considerably : in one part form- 


ing on the right-hand a capacious curve, 
in which la}^ a rather deep pool, green 
with slime within and rushes without; 
and known as “ Harebell Pond.” A 
plantation of firs was fenced in on the 
bank, rising immediately above it. Al- 
together, in spite of its space, this was 
the most dreary part of the lane. A few 
yards onwards, the lane, narrowing again, 
took a sharp turn to the right, and led 
direct to an inn of not too good reputa- 
tion, called “ The Trailing Indian.” 
The man keeping this inn was named 
Randolf Black. His brother, Moses 
Black, had died about a twelvemonth 
ago at Harebell Farm. They had come 
strangers to the place some years back, 
evidently monied men ; at any rate, flush 
of ready money ; and became tenants of 
INIr. Honey thorn. Moses took Harebell 
Farm ; Randolf the solitary public house 
known then as “ The Plough ; ” but wliich 
he re-named The Trailing Indian.” 
After a few j^ears Moses Black died. 
Randolf immediately applied to Sir 
Dene Clanwaring (who had just become 
his landlord through the purchase of 
Beechhurst Dene) to be allowed to take 
the farm as well as the inn ; evincing 
unmistakable eagerness that it should be 
so. His character, how|ver, had devel- 
oped itself by that time ; and Sir Dene, 
instructed on the point, refused. Robert 
Owen then presented himself as a tenant 
for the farm ; and to him it was let. A 
little beyond the Trailing Indian, Hare- 
bell Lane was crossed by a high road ; in 
fact, was terminated bj' it : and it was to 
the chance of the travellers on this high 
wa}^ turning aside to the inn that the 
Trailing Indian trusted — or assumed to 
trust — for its support. 

But we must go back to Harebell 
Farm. Entering at the small wooden 
gate (that, and the large one by its side, 
looked like twin brothers of those of 
Beechhurst Dene on the other side the 
lane) and passing round b}^ the barns, 
the ricks, and the fold-yard, we come to 
the front ; for the dwelling faced the op- 
posite way. The house was full of 
angles ; the red-brick of which it was 
built had become dark and dingy with 
age. A square patch of lawn and 
flower garden was before the door ; be- 
yond it stretched out the expanse of 
meadow and corn-fields ; with the tips 
of the Malvern hills bounding the hori- 
zon in the distance. 


28 


DENE HOLLOW. 


It was a day or two after the one 
mentioned in the last chapter ; and the 
sky was as blue as then, and the sun- 
shine as bright. In a homely room, 
partaking somewhat of the kitchen as 
well as of the parlor, save that cooking was 
not done in it, sat Mrs. Owen after din- 
ner ; a delicate looking woman of low 
voice and gentle manners. She had on 
a warm gown of purple stuff, a large 
collar of muslin work — the mode then — 
and white lace cap. Her feet rested on 
a footstool; her thin hands were busy 
with a heap of stockings, sorting those 
that wanted darning from those that did 
not. At the window, preparing to em- 
broider a strip of fine cambric that was 
to form a portion of an infant’s cap, sat 
Mary Owen — prettier without her bon- 
net even than with it. Slie wore a 
dress of light, checked green silk, its 
sleeves finished with a ruffle and a fall 
of lace just below the elbow. Her hair 
fell in glossy curls, her fresh, bright, 
dimpled face was something good to 
look upon. The floor was of red brick 
— squares — but a carpet covered it to 
the edge of the chairs : the furniture, 
plain, old, but of substantial mahogany, 
was polished to brightness. This was 
the parlor in ordinary use ; there was a 
handsomer one, called the best parlor, 
for high-days and holidays. The terms 
dining-room and drawing-room were too 
grand for a farm-house in those unpre- 
tentious days. 

Maria looked up to speak : some 
eagerness on her beautiful face. 

“ Mamma, how long do 3mu think I 
shall be, working this cap ? ” 

“ That depends, my dear, upon the 
time 3mu are able to give to it,” was 
Mrs. Owen’s answer. “ You cannot 
neglect your necessary home occupations 
for fancy-work.” 

“ Oh I know that. I wont neglect 
anything. I should like to get it done 
in two months.” 

“ You have chosen so very intricate a 
pattern, Maria.” 

But it will be all the more beautiful. 
I should not like Polly to be buying a 
best cap. Rather than that, I would 
tell her I am working this one : though 
I want it to be a surprise. I think you 
can give me some old lace for it, 
mamma.” 

“ I shall see, when the cap’s finished 
— whether it is worth it.” 


Standing by the fire, having come in 
during this soliloquy, was a rather tall 
and somewhat hard-featured woman, 
with a strange look of perplexity on her 
sensible face. She wore the costume of 
the day, a print gown straight down to 
the ankles, white stockings, and tied 
shoes. This was Mary Barber : the 
faithful upper servant of the house — 
indeed there was but one maid kept be- 
sides — but regarded more as a friend 
than a servant. Her features were well- 
formed ; her hair, worn in small curls on 
either side her face, beneath the cap- 
border, was of a bright brown yet. 
What Mary Barber’s age was, could not 
be guessed from her appearance. At 
thirty years of age she had looked mid- 
dle-aged ; she looked it still ; she would 
probably look it for thirty years to 
come. Perhaps she was now not much 
turned forty. Her mother was the old 
woman you saw. skimming the milk. 

“ Have you done tliat bit of ironing, 
Mary ? ” asked Mrs. Owen. 

“ No, missis.” 

A shade of surprise passed over Mrs. 
Owen’s features. But she said nothing. 

“ I can’t settle to an^’thing, missis ; 
and that’s the plain truth,” burst forth 
the woman, flinging up her hands. ‘‘ It 
is a cruel, wicked thing, that my poor 
old mother should come to this when 
she’s close upon her grave.” 

It is ver^’’ grievous to be turned oulb 
of one’s home,” remarked Mrs. Owen, a 
sad, far-off look in her lifted eyes. 

“ It’s worse to have her word disput- 
ed : at least 1 think it so. Jonathan 
Drew told me to m3' face last night, 
missis, that mother must be in her dot- 
age, to fancy she had ever had the 
paper.” 

“ But 3'ou told me Mr. Drew knew of 
her having the paper.” 

“ Mother sa3's he knew of it ; she has 
always said he did. I wish Sir Dene 
Cl an waring had sta3'ed where he was, 
afore he’d ever come here to trouble 
us.” 

AYhen once your mother’s out — if 
she has to go out — I daresa3' she wont 
mind it, Mary Barber,” observed the 
3'oung ladv'. ‘‘One home is as good as 
another.” 

“ Much you know about it. Miss 
Maria ! If you had to be turned out 
of yours, you’d tell a different tale.” 

“ Why I have been turned out of it. 


HAREBELL FARM. 


29 


We all have. That is, my father chose 
to leave. I can tell you Mary Barber, 
I was sad enough at the time ; but I 
like this one best now.” 

Mary Barber gave a rather significant 
sniff, as if she thought that there might 
be some special cause for the young 
lady’s liking the new one best. 

“ You don’t understand it, Miss 
Maria. The young can’t be expected to 
know how old people become attached 
to their homes, so that they seem like 
just a part of themselves and that it 
gets as hard to part with ’em as it is to 
part with a limb. I am sure of this,” 
concluded Mary Barber emphatically — 

that if mother is drove out, she’ll go 
straight to the grave-yard.” 

Maria dropped her cambric in conster- 
nation. “ Do you mean that it would 
—kill her? ” she asked, in a low tone. 

“Just as certaiul}^. Miss Maria, as 
that the Lord’s looking down upon us 
to note the injustice. And he will note 
it — if it’s done.” 

“ Hush, Mary,” interposed the mis- 
tress. “ Let us hope for the best. She 
may be let stay in it yet.”. 

“ Well, I’ll hope it, missis, as long as 
I can ; and I’ll do my best to further it. 
But it won’t be none the nearer coming 
to pass, for all that : I’ve not had these 
bad dreams lately for nothing. And 
poor mother, always in distress, is first 
and foremost in every one of ’em.” 

There was a short silence : the cuckoo 
clock against the wall ticking out lazily 
the minutes of the afternoon. Mary 
Barber resumed. 

“ If it warn’t for that bit of ironing, 
missis — and I know it ought to be done 
when to-morrow’s Friday and cleaning- 
day — I’d ask you to spare me.” 

“ What for ? ” questioned Mrs. 
Owen. 

“ To go to Sir Dene Clanwaring,” 
said the woman in a decisive tone, and 
both her auditors looked up in amaze- 
ment. “ When I was at mother’s last 
night I told her to have one good last 
hunt for the paper, and to send it me 
this morning if she could find it. It 
hasn’t come ; which is a pretty safe sign 
that it’s not found. But perhaps if we 
both go together to Sir Dene, she and 
me, and I speak up quietly for her to 
him — for shed never have the courage 
to speak for herself — he may listen to 
us, and let her stay. The ironing ” 


“ I’ll do the ironing for you, Mary,” 
cried Miss Owen, starting up with sweet 
good nature. “ I’ll go and set about it 
now.” 

Mary Barber made ready for her 
errand ; and came down stairs dressed 
in her best, surprising her mistress. A 
cinnamon-brown gown of soft cashmere, 
and gray twilled-silk shawl with its 
handsome border of bright colors. She 
had had the shawl for half her life, and 
it looked as good as new now. The 
straw bonnet of the “cottage” shape, 
had g^ray ribbons on it. 

“You have dressed yourself up, 
Mary ! ” 

“ Yes, missis. If I had gone in my 
rags, Sir Dene mightn’t have looked 
twice at me. Dress goes down with all 
the world. You’ll wish me luck, 
ma’am ? ” 

And as Mary Barber turned out at 
the back door, a folded handkerchief 
and her large cotton umbrella in her 
hand — an invariable appendage w^hen 
she had on her best things, no matter 
how fine the weather — an old slipper 
and a joyous laugh came after her from 
Miss Maria. 

She went along at a brisk pace, draw- 
ing on her gloves. In the fold-yard she 
met the farmer. He regarded the 
dressed- up apparition with intense 
astonishment. 

“ Why, where are you off to, Mary, 
woman ? ” 

She told him where. Mr. Owen 
shook his head a little, as if he had not 
much faith in the result of the expedi- 
tion.” 

“ You can try of course, Mary Bar- 
ber. But great men, like Sir Dene, 
don’t choose to be dictated to, or thwart- 
ed in any scheme they set their minds 
on.” 

“ Sir Dene went as far as to say to 
mother that he’d deliberate upon it if 
the paper could be found, master,” she 
observed, noting the signs. 

“ But the paper’s not found. My 
opinion is, it would have been better 
never to have said anything about the 
paper, as it’s not forthcoming.” 

“ Why ! — surely, master, you are not 
supposing that there never was any such 
paper ? ” she exclaimed. 

“ I feel as sure as you do that the 
paper was given,” he answered. “ I 
heard speak of it at the time. But Sir 


30 


DENE HOLLOW. 


Dene is a stranger among us ; and, to 
assert such a thing to liim, and in the 
same breath to plead inability to pro- 
duce the paper, gives a bad impression, 
you see.’’ 

Mr. Owen was in his usual working 
attire — for he took a very active part 
amidst his men ; drab breeches and 
gaiters, and a drab coat. In his young- 
er days, E-obert Owen was fond of pleas- 
ure ; had been what would now be call- 
ed fast, seduced to it perhaps by his re- 
markable beauty. He would neglect his 
business to follow the hounds, to take a 
morning’s shooting, to kill time and 
spend money in many other ways. 
Debts had accumulated, and he had 
been ever since a crippled man in 
means. Instead of remaining a gen- 
tleman farmer, he had been obliged to 
degenerate into a working one, always 
pulled back by want of capital. None 
could regret that early improvidence 
more than he : but unfortunately regrets 
don’t undo these things. He had taken 
this new farm, hoping to do better at it 
than he had at the old one, the lease of 
wliich was out. Mrs. Owen had been 
quite willing to leave the old home. 
They had lost their younger son in it, a 
very promising youth, under distressing 
circumstances; and while she stayed in 
it she could not forget her sorrow. 

“ Mary Barber will not succeed,” was 
Mr. Owen’s mental thought, as he 
stroked his fine white beard in abstrac- 
tion, and his eyes followed her through 
the gate to the lane. “ The old woman 
has no doubt inadvertently destroyed 
that paper : and, without it, she has no 
legal case.” 

‘•Well, mother, is it found?” began 
Mary Barber, entering her mother’s 
home and kitchen witlmut ceremony. 

Mrs. Barber was bending over the 
fire, on which stood a large saucepan 
full of potato peelings that she was boil- 
ing for her fowls. She turned her head. 

“ Lawk a day ! ” was her exclamation, 
as the vision of her smart daughter 
burst on her astonished view. “ What- 
ever be you decked out for, like that, 
Mary ? ’Taint the wake.” 

“ No ; but missis has gave me holi- 
day,” replied Mary, sitting down on the 
wooden chair, which she dusted first 
with a cloth. “ Have you found the 
paper, mother ? ” 

Poor Mrs. Barber shook her head. 


“ I’ve looked for it till I can look no 
longer ; above stairs and below. I 
looked till I went to bed, Mary ; where 
I got no sleep all night ; and at day- 
light I was up, looking again. It’ll 
wear me out, child ; it’ll wear me out.” 

Lifting the saucepan on the hob, lest 
its contents should burn while she 
ceased stirring, she dropped on a low 
wooden stool, and hid her face in her 
hands. 'Mary Barber was looking more 
cross than compassionate. 

“ To leave the place where I’ve lived 
all my life ! To see my bits o’ furniture 
turned out, sold perhaps — for where am 
I to put ’em ? — these very pots and 
pans, even” (ranging her eyes on the 
Langing tins) “ that I’ve kept as bright 
as silver ! My poor cow ; my fowls ; 
the pig in its sty — Mary, I’d rather the 
gentlefolks would kill me outright.” 

“Now look here, mother,” said Mary, 
who never wasted the slightest time or 
sympathy upon sentiment. “ That pa- 
per is either in the house, or ought to 
be : and if it is, it must be found. First 
of all — where did jmu put it ? ” 

“ Where did I put it ? ” repeated 
Mrs. Barber, rather listlessl}’’, for just at 
that moment her thoughts were running 
on abstract matters. “ When I was 
looking in the press this morning — and 
that'W have to go along o’ the other 
things, Mary ! Oh, woe’s me ! ” 

“ J ust carry your mind back, mother ” 
— with a slight stamp of the umbrella 
— “ to that back time when it was given 
you. Who brought it here?” 

“ Who brought it here ? — why Squire 
Honeythorn himself. He came in and 
sat down in this kitchen in that very 
chair of your poor father’s. I remember 
being vexed because I’d not got on my 
best black with the crape bottom to it ; 
a bombazine it was, three shillings a 
yard. Miss Keynolds made it, the grand 
dressmaker at Worcester, and ” 

“ About Squire Honeythorn, mother,” 
interrupted Mary Barber, bringing her 
up. 

“Well, he came in — I can see his pig- 
tail now, hanging over the back o’ the 
chair. The money for the house and 
land was paid over to Lawyer Hayties, 
he said, and he had brought to me him- 
self the promise in his own hand that I 
should not be turned from the phu^e 
while I lived. A great rogue that 
Haynes was ! He buttered his own 


HAREBELL FARM. 


81 


pocl^et smartly while he settled with the 
creditors.” 

‘‘ Mother, there’s the afternoon slip- 
ping on. Where did you put the paper 
then ? ” 

“ In my best tea-cadd}',” said the old 
woman, promptly. ‘‘ All my papers of 
consequence be kept in there; and. no- 
body has never had the key of it but 
me. That same day, after I’d locked it 
up, young Jonathan Drew looked in to 
say the money was paid — not knowing 
his master had been here before him. I 
told him of the promise I had •got : and 
he said it was no news to him. Squire 
Honej^thorn had told him he should give 
it.” 

“ Have you seen the paper since 
then ? ” 

“ Yes, many a time. I’ve looked at 
it when I’ve unlocked the caddy for 
other papers.” 

“ Will you let me look, mother ? 
May-be, it’s there still.” 

jMrs. Barber was a little offended at 
this, asking her daughter if she thought 
she had no eyesight; but finally consent- 
ed. The tea-caddy, a japanned one, had 
stood on the parlor mantel-piece, its 
middle ornament, as long as Mary could 
remember. Marj^’s keen gray eyes 
searched every paper — chieflj^ consisting 
of the half-yearly receipts for her rent — 
but the missing paper was not there. 

“ Ypu must have put it somewhere 
else 3'ourself, mother ? ” 

‘‘ I suppose I must.' There was a 
great talk one winter of the highway- 
men being about, and I know I got in a 
worrit over my cadd\'- o’ papers, and hid 
'em away in places. But I always 
thought .I’d put ’em all back again 
later.” 

“ Well, there seems nothing for it but 
to beg grace of Sir Dene Clan waring, 
as we’ve got no- proof to show of any 
right. And that’s where I am going, 
mother, and wdiat I’ve made myself 
smart for. You must come wuth me.” 

But the astounding proposition put 
Mrs. Barber in a tremor — go to Sir 
Dene Clanwaring ! — and Mary found it 
of no use urging it, so she departed 
alone. In the narrow pathway, almost 
close to the cottage, stood Jonathan 
Drew and a couple of men; the latter 
with a measuring chain in their hands. 
Mrs. Barber saw them from her door, 
and turned as white as death, 


What be you a doing? ” demanded 
Mary Barber, as she was passing them. 

“ Only a measuring out o’ the ground, 
a bit,” said Jonathan Drew. 

“For the new hollow they talk of?” 

“ There’s not nothing else we should 
be a measuring of it for,” was the re- 
tort. And Mar}' Barber walked on. 

Crossing the high road, she entered 
the gates, and proceeded up the avenue 
between the fine old trees. Beechhurst 
Dene was an ancient red-brick mansion, 
roomy, old-fashioned, comfortable, and 
withal handsome both outside and in. It 
stood in the midst of its park, ornament- 
al gardens immediately around it. Mary 
Barber had been there more than once in 
Mr. Honeythorn’s time, and knew it 
well. Avoiding the grand front en- 
trance, she bore round to her right, to 
the familiar one used by the servants, 
tenants, and in fact often by the family 
themselves. Just on this side, the look 
out of the house seemed confined, so 
many trees and shrubs were crowded 
about. A pathway led direct to the 
gate in Harebell Lane ; and Mary Bar- 
ber would have made that her way of 
entrance at first, hut for having to go to 
her mother’s. The French windows of a 
parlor opened this way, and .Mary saw 
Sir Dene sitting in it. Knocking at 
the open side door with her umbrella, 
she asked a footman if she could be al- 
lowed to see his master. The servant 
did not happen to know her. He told 
Sir Dene a lady was asking to see him : 
“ leastways a respectable-looking woman, 
that might be a farmer’s wife.” 

Sir Dene admitted her. But when 
she introduced lierself as Mary Barber, 
and he found she was the widow Barber’s 
daughter, come to bother him about the 
new cutting, he felt anything but pleased. 
Something had occurred that afternoon 
to vex Sir Dene : it had nothing to do 
with the matter in question ; but it 
served to put him out of temper. How- 
ever, he was civil enough to ask her to 
sit down, and did not refuse to hear her. 
It was a small room with a bay-window ; 
the floor covered with matting; Sir 
Dene chiefly received his tenants here, 
and other business people. 

Mary Barber sat bolt upright on the 
extreme edge of the chair ; her folded 
handkerchief and umbrella in her hand, 
her back to the window. Sir Dene was 
on the other side the table, near the fire, 


82 


DENE HOLLOW. 


his open desk before him. He listened 
to what she had to say, without once in- 
terrupting her. 

“ Do you think this paper, that you 
talk of, ever had any existence ? ” he 
asked then — and his tone bore a kind of 
suppressed scorn, which caused Mary 
Barber’s bard cheeks to flush. 

“ I am sure it had, sir.” 

Did you ever see it, Mrs. Barber ? ” 
No, sir ; never,” was the straight- 
forward answer. My mother did not 
show it to me. And I never heard that 
my sister saw it, neither,” she added, in 
her honesty. Father’s affairs took a 
good while to arrange after his death ; 
and before they were settled, my sister 
Hester and I had gone out to relieve 
mother of our keep, and make our own 
W'ay in the world. I went to service 5 
Hester married.” 

“ Does she — your sister — profess to 
remember anything of this promise ? ” 
She has been dead some years, sir.” 

“Don’t you think it a strange thing 
that your mother should not have kept 
more carefully a paper of the importance 
she appears to attach to this.” 

“ My opinion is, sir, she has kept it too 
carefullj^, and put it in some out-of-the- 
way place for safety, that she can’t now 
remember,” was Mary Barber’s inde- 
pendent answer. “ There’s no doubt 
she was scared with fear of the highwa}"- 
men : and the best of us are liable to for- 
getfulness, especially when we grow old.” 

“ I cannot say more than I have 
done,” said Sir Dene impatiently. 
“ Produce the paper, and its merits shall 
be examined. I am ignorant as to what 
weight it carried, or was intended to 
carry. Of course, if it conferred the 
right legally that you seem to fancy — 
which 1 think almost an impossibility — 
we must submit it to a lawyer, and take 
his opinion : but I stronglj'’ suspect it 
W'as not legally worth the paper it was 
written upon.” 

“ Mr. Honeythorn would not trifl.e 
with my mother, sir.” 

“ As to Mr. Honeythorn, I don’t doubt 
that his bare word, passed, would have 
been good for him to act upon to the end 
of his life, without need of document to 
confirm it. But, what bound him, could 
never be meant to bind me. No, ma’am, 
nor be expected to, in any sort of 
reason.” 

The manners in those past days were 


far more courtly than they are now. Sir 
Dene Clan waring thought nothing of 
addressing Mary Barber as “ ma’am,” 
and did not do it ironically. 

“I’m afraid you’ll go on with this 
dreadful thing, sir,” she said, her gray 
eyes fixed upon him. 

“Dreadful thing! It will be a very 
good thing.” 

“ Not for my mother. She has been 
a good woman, sirj her cup of sorrow 
brim-full.” 

“ I should say she must be an obsti- 
nate one, Mrs. Barber. She would be as 
well in another cottage as this — and there 
are plenty to be had for the seeking.” 

“ She cannot live long, sir,” pleaded 
Mary Barber. “ She ” 

“ As to that, she may live as long as 
I,” was the interruption. “ She is a 
tough, healthy, hearty woman, and may 
last for ten or fifteen, ay, for twenty 
years to come.” 

“ She is in her seventy-sixth j^ear, 
Sir Dene. Oh, sir, spare her. Don’t 
turn her out to die. I’d make bold to 
ask, sir, how^ou would like to be turn- 
ed out of a home where you’d lived all 
your days, when you shall be as old as 
she is. She was born in it ; it was her 
father’s before her ; and she brought up 
her children in it, Hester and me. Sir, 
I know you are one of the high gentle- 
folks of the land, and it’s not becoming 
of me to dare to speak to you in this 
free way. Heaven knows, I’d only do 
it for poor mother’s sake.” 

“ I thought the property belonged to 
your father,” observed Sir Dene, on 
whom the pleading cry appeared to 
make no impression. 

“ No, sir ; to my mother : she was 
Hester Drew. When she married 
Thomas Barber, he went home to her 
house — which was reversing the order 
of things in ordinary. Father had 
nothing of his own : and he was some- 
how a bad manager: not fortunate. 
When he died, and it was found affairs 
were bad, there seemed nothing for it 
but selling the property, so that folks 
should be paid — and my sister and I 
turned out at once. Squire Honeythorn 
was sorry for mother, and he gave her 
the promise we tell of.” 

“ Is your mother any '•elation to 
Drew, my bailiff?” asked Sir Dene, 
noting the coincidence of the name. 

“ His father and mother’s father were 


MARIA OWEN. 


33 


second or third cousins, sir — nothing to 
speak of.’’ 

Has your mother any income of her 
own ? ” 

“ Not a penny, sir. She sacrificed all 
she had to pay father’s debts. The sale 
of her milk and poultry meets her rent, 
perhaps a bit over ; and she has ’tatoes 
and other garden stuff ; and her pig — 
which makes bacon to last her the year. 
And for the rest, I help her to a bit o’ 
tea and that, and Hester’s family to 
other trifles. We shall never let her 
starve, sir, whatever betideS:” 

“ At her age she ought to be glad at 
the prospect of being relieved from the 
care of a cow and pig,” remarked Sir 
Dene. 

“ It is her great pleasure to be active, 
sir : the back is generally fitted to the 
burden. Mother is hale and hearty yet.” 

“ She is” pointedly acquiesced Sir 
Dene. I have just said so, Mrs. Barber. 

He looked at his watch. Mary Bar- 
ber took the hint, and rose. Sir Dene 
politely opened the door for her. 

She stood still, and curtsied to him. 
And then — as she was actually passing 
out — turned round, and clasped her 
gloved hands in a beseeching attitude, 
holding the great umbrella by one little 
finger. 

“ Oh, sir, I hope you’ll please to think 
kindly of it ! I could hardly pray hard- 
er to God — as He hears and knows — 
than I’m praying for this boon to you. 
She has no one living to take her part 
but me, or to speak a word for her. Be 
merciful to her, sir, in this her old age, 
and let her be ! She may not stand in 
your way long. God will be sure to re- 
ward you for it. Sir Dene ! and she will 
pray for blessings on you every night 
and morning of the few poor years of 
her remaining life.” 

Hard, matter-of-fact Mary Barber 
had never spoken such words in her 
days ; never perhaps been so near to be 
moved by emotion. After they came 
forth she stood a moment looking at 
him, expecting perhaps some hopeful 
answer, f But none came. Sir Dene 
Clanwaring steeled alike his ear and his 
heart. 

“ 1 am sorry this should have occurred, 
Mrs. Barber. In entering upon a fresh 
estate, one has to look I suppose for dis- 
putes and vexations. If I gave in to 
2 


this one, others would no doubt arise : 
therefore, I must make a stand in my 
own defence. Good afternoon, ma’am.” 

Mary Barber, feeling iiiat she had 
bitterly failed, went straight back to her 
mother’s cottage. There, her bonnet 
and shawl taken off, her gown-skirt and 
sleeves turned up, and the biggest apron 
tied round her that the place afforded, 
she instituted a thorough search for the 
missing paper and found it not. 

But Sir Dene Clanwaring, even while 
he gave her the last decisive answer, 
said to hiinself in his heart of hearts 
that he would sleep upon it. As he 
did. 

And a very heavy sleep it was. For 
he dropped off the instant he got into 
bed, and was woke up in the morning 
by his hot water. During the process 
of shaving, he decided that Mrs. Bar- 
ber, n^e Drew, was what his bailiff, 
her distant relative, had called her — an 
obstinate, cantankerous, troublesome old 
woman, who must not be allowed to 
stand in the light of himself and her 
neighbors. 

And that the road should be made. 


CHAPTER III. 

• MARIA OWEN. . 

It was a wild night. Clouds chased 
each other across the sky, darkening the 
face of the moon ; the wind dashed 
along in fitful gusts with a rush and a 
whirl, dying away in wailing moans. 

Stealing up Harebell Lane with steps 
that seemed to fear their own echo, went 
two men carr^fing between them a 
bulky parcel, to all appearance remark- 
ably heavy for its size. They had 
smock frocks thrown over their ordinary 
attire, and hats slouched low on their 
faces. A casual passer-by would have 
taken them for laborers, tramping home 
with tired feet after a day’s ploughing : 
a keener observer, if accustomed to live 
amidst rustics, might have seen how 
uneasily those smock frocks sat, and 
divined by instinct that they were a.s- 
sumed for a purpose. 

Bear your own weight of the load, 
Geach, and be hanged to ye,” growled 
one, who was short and compact, to his 
taller companion. 


34 


DEXE HOLLOW. 


And don’t I bear it ? — You 
be shot ! ” carelessly retorted the other. 

The parcel was more like a bundle, its 
outside covering of dirty canvas, and 
might have been supposed to contain 
garments rather untidily rolled up to- 
gether. In the stout cord by which it 
was confined were left two loops at 
either end, by which the men carried it. 

Change hands.” 

They had gone a fe\t paces further 
when Geach said this, and were close to 
the gates leading into Beechhurst Dene. 

Voices and steps, as if advancing from 
the Dene, at this moment became audi- 
ble ; and the men who were in the act 
of changing hands, started. A mo- 
ment’s pause, to listen : when Geach 
pushed his comrade into the ditch under 
the hedge, without the smallest com- 
punction, and the bundle upon him. 

“ Keep dark, for your life, Bobson ! ” 
he breathed. “ Hide it, man ; hide it. 

“ Hang that moon ! ” 

. The ofiending moon, left bright by a 
departing cloud, w^as not apostrophised 
bj' any so innocent word as “ hang : ” 
but the language really used by these 
men could not be allowed to appear in 
polite literature. Possibly believing' he 
was too tall for any hedge or ditch to 
conceal him, Geach noiselesslj" leaped to 
the other side of the lane, and then 
went on with a bent, sauntering gait, 
whistling a rustic song, as two people 
emerged from the grounds of Beech- 
hurst Dene. 

“ Good night t’ye, masters,” he said, 
in the Worcestershire tone. 

“ Good night, my man,” heartily re- 
sponded Geoffry Clanwaring, who made 
one ; the other being Simmons, his 
father’s young gamekeeper. And they 
passed down the lane out of sight. 

With some grumbling and grunting, 
the man called Bobson got out of the 
ditch : which, fortunately for him, was 
tolerablj'- dry. Taking the parcel be- 
tween them as before, they stole on, 
Bobson growling still. 

“ Tell ye what it is, Geach,” he mut- 
tered. “ This here lane ain’t the place 
it used to be. What with these here 
new folks at the Dene and their crowd 
o’ servants, and that dratted farmer in 
Mosy Black’s farm, Pll be smothered if 
I call it safe.” 

“ Where’s the danger ? ” airily re- 
sponded Geach. 


The danger! Take to-night. If 
them two had pounced upon us afore 
we’d time to get it away, they might ha’ 
turned curious eyes on it. One was Sir 
Dene’s son ; t’other was the keeper. 1 
know’d ’m by their voices.” 

“Well? They’d have seen a bundle 
of — anything — done up with apparent 
looseness, and two poor tired laborers 
tramping home to their night’s rest. 
What o’ that ? Before there can be 
any danger, there must be suspicion, 
Bobson : and I’ll take my oath there’s 
none o’ that abroad yet. You were 
always a croaker.” 

“ I don’t care ; I’m right,” grumbled 
Bobson. “ The wa}’’ here is not the lone 
way it wms ; and danger may come.” 

“ Better hold your tongue just now. 
There may be ears behind that hedge 
of Owen’s.” 

It was good advice, and they went on 
in silence. By the pond, Geach again 
demanded to change hands. He was a 
verj^ tall, upright, and apparently strong 
young man : yet his arms seemed to 
get tired quickly. Bobson remarked 
upon it. 

“ I had a bad fall a week ago, and my 
bones haven’t done aching yet,” ex- 
plained Geach in a whisper. 

What wdth the naturd gloominess of 
the lane, and the densely black clouds 
covering the moon, it had been, for some 
minutes safely dark. There occurred a 
sudden change to light as they were 
changing hands : the moon shone out in 
all her best brightness, causing the open 
part where they now stood to be almost 
as light as daj^ Bobson, his mind not 
altogether at ease and his eyes roving 
everywhere, suddenly saw some object 
leaning over the fence above the pond. 
Was it a man ? Starting back a step 
involuntarily, he hissed forth a low sig- 
nal of caution. Geach was always pre- 
pared. He pushed the bundle entirely 
into the arras of his companion — who 
slightly staggered under the unexpected 
weight — and began whistling again., as 
they walked on lik?e two unconcerne(i 
rustics. 

Ves, it was a man. And one they 
recognised. There shone the seal-skin 
cap, tipped with white fur, and the 
whiter beard of Bobert Owen. He was 
evidently looking at them ; watching 
them openl3\ They would have gone 
on, pretending not to see him, buf; that 


MARIA OWEN. 


a rather sharp cough took Mr. Owen at 
the same moment : and they could not 
assume not to hear. Geach stopped his 
whistling, and turned to speak. 

“ If ye please, master, can ye tell us 
whether we be in the right road for 
Bransford ? ” 

‘‘ For Bransford ? Why that’s a long 
way off,” returned Mr. Owen. “ You’ll 
have to wind about a bit, my men, and 
do some cross-country before you get to 
Bransford. Where d’ye come from ? ” 

“ Worcester last.” 

Worcester! Then why did you not 
take the Bransford road direct — if it’s 
Bransford you want ? ” 

Missed our way. Thank ye, mas- 
ter.” 

Resuming his whistling, and giving a 
pull to his hat by way of salutation, 
Geach walked on. Robson had not 
stopped. 

Mr. Owen stretched himself over the 
fence to look after them, until they were 
hidden by the winding of the lane. 
Geach knew, almost by intuition, that 
they were being watched. A very em- 
phatic curse broke from his lips. 

“ What did I tell ye ? ” whispered 
Robson. The trailing Indian’s not as 
safe as it was. It may have to shift its 
quarters.” 

“ Shift its quarters be stifled ! ” re- 
torted Geach. Black can take care of 
himself: and of you too.” 

“ Well, it’s a new thing to be watch- 
ed like this in Harebell Lane. I don’t 
stomach it, Geach ; I can tell ye that.” 

A short while, and they arived at that 
solitary hostelrie : a low, two sto’’ied old 
house with gables, and a dangling sign- 
board. The turnpike road, that ran 
crosswaj^’s and terminated the lane, was 
within view. It has already been said 
that the Trailing Indian professed to 
derive its support from chance travellers 
passing up and down it. 

Save for one candle, put to stand in a 
casement window, the inn presented a 
dark appearance — which for an inn 
looked most inhospitable. Letting the 
parcel fall gently on the ground, Geach 
gave three distinct knocks on the door, 
and tl^en tapped at the window. The 
candlp was removed from the casement, 
and i(. man’s head came out. 

‘‘/Who’s that, knocking at my win- 
do/v ? ” 


85 

“ Me and Robson. Open the door, 
Randy.” 

Mr. Black hastened to do so. Amidst 
his friends — and foes too — his Christian 
name was familiarl}’’ converted into 
Randy : it came easier to the lips than 

Randolf.” He wa§ a tall, swarthy 
man of five or six and thirty, with a 
sinister look in his dark face. Catching 
up the bundle in his arms, he led the 
way through passages to a remote room, 
closed in with shutters : not the room 
of general entertainment, one entirely 
private to himself. The men took off 
their smock frocks, and the landlord 
called about him. A little woman, very 
pretty once, but pale, sad-eyed, and 
struck into meekness by terror long ago, 
came forward in answer to his call. It 
was Mrs. Black. 

“ Get supper at once — pork chops and 
mashed potatoes ; and put a good log 
on the parlor fire,” said Black imperi- 
ously. “Don’t be a month over it, 
now : and come and knock at the door 
when supper’s read3\” 

Save for an ostler, who slept over the 
stables, and was on very close terms 
with his master, no servant was kept. 
The ostler would give help at odd jobs 
sometimes, otherwise Mrs. Black had to 
do all the domestic work. It was not 
over-burthening in a general way ; 
bona fide travellers at the inn were few 
and far between. For all the profit 
they brought, its master might have 
starved. 

The inn had a bad reputation, though 
the suspicions cast on it were but of a 
vague nature. Stout sailors and boat- 
men occasionally made their way to it 
from barges coming up the Severn, 
striking across the country from the 
river by night ; and it was thought their 
inflated appearance told of concealed 
brandy-skins and tobacco. Smuggling 
was largely pursued in those daj’s, and 
brought back its profits. It is possible 
that Mr. Black dealt in other things : 
that his house had some safe hiding- 
places in it, where booty, the proceeds 
of robberies in town and country, might 
be stowed away in safety until the hue- 
and-cry after it was over. These men, at 
any rate, sitting round the table to-night 
together, were neither sailors nor boat- 
men. A tale was current in the neigh- 
borhood that a traveller had disappeared 


36 


DEI^E HOLLOW. 


at this inn in a very mysterious manner. 
It was a pedlar, tramping the country 
with rather* valualde wares. That he 
had called in at the Trailing Indian for 
refreshments one summer evening, there 
was no douht, intending afterwards to 
proceed on his way to Worcester by 
moonlight. The landlord, and the ostler, 
and Mrs. Black, all declared that he had 
so proceeded : and there was no proof at 
all that he had not. However it may 
have been, the pedlar had not turned 
up at Worcester ; he had never been 
seen or heard of since. 

There was only one candle on the 
table ; and, that, of tallow ; but the 
articles Mr. Black was feasting his eyes 
upon shone as brightly as though they 
had been illuminated by lime-lighL 
Massive articles of solid silver, were 
they ; some few of gold : no wonder, 
packed compactly, that the two porters 
had found them somewhat heavy. 
Geach was a fair, nice-looking young 
man, his features small, all but the 
nose ; that was high, shapely, and 
prominent. He was born to fill a better 
station, but evil courses had brought 
him down in the world. Hobson had a 
close and contracted expression of coun- 
tenance. They were telling of the 
encounter with farmer Owen. 

“ It wont c?o, 3’^ou know. Black, to be 
watched by him,” cried Hobson savagely. 
‘‘ If he is to pass his nights haunting 
the lane, the sooner the Trailing Indian 
knows it, the better.” 

“ I wish Sir Dene Clanwaring had 
been sunk, before he refused to lease me 
the farm in Mosy’s place ! ” exclaimed 
Black. “He is going to cut a hollow 
somewhere now, to bring up wagons 
and carts quicker from Hurst Leet — 
smother him ! As if he wanted more 
ways up here ! ” 

“ That’s not much, Handy — a cutting. 
Owen is.” 

“ Owen had better keep himself and 
his eyes for his own afeiirs ; he may 
find himself in the wrong box if he 
attempts to look after mine,” was Mr. 
Handy’s comment. “ The outcry’s 
pretty hot, I hear, at Worcester.” 

Geach laughed. “ Nothing less than 
a gang from London, they say.” 

“ I can’t think how he could have 
been standing,” resumed Hobson pres- 
ently, returning to the subject of farmer 


Owen — for the encounter seemed to 
have made a most unpleasant impression 
on him. The fence is right against 
the trees.” 

“No it’s not,” said Black ; “ there’s a 
strip o’ pathway. And my brother, 
Mosy, was fool enough to make it, as a 
short cut to the two-acre meadow. 
Owen has got some sheep there; and 
now that the lambing season’s on, he oi 
the shepherd is everlastingly out with 
’em at night. One Or t’other on ’em’s 
sure to be out.” 

“ But why need he halt in the path- 
way and push his ugly beard over the 
fence to watch the lane ? ” contended 
Hobson. “ What’s it for, Handj^ ? ” 

“ How the devil should I know ? ” 
retorted Handy. “ Here ; lend a hand, 
you two.” 

The articles had been placed in a box. 
Black then opened a closet in the room, 
which had apparently no other egress, 
pushed up one of its panels, and got 
through the aperture, Hobson and the 
box disappearing after him. As soon 
as they were back again, and the closet 
door and panel made fast, Mrs. Black 
knocked to say that supper was waiting 
in the parlor. And the three went out 
to it. 

We must return to Geoffry Clanwar- 
ing. Passing down the lane with his 
game-keeper, seeing nothing and sus- 
pecting nothing of the man hidden in 
the ditch, he had reached the end of the 
lane, when two people were observed 
approaching ; one of whom was laugh- 
ing gaily. A silvery, sweet laugh ; 
that a little stirred the pulses of Mr. 
Geoffry. It was Maria Owen. She 
had been spending the afternoon at 
Hurst Leet, and was returning attended 
by the house - servant, a stout, red- 
cheeked, red-armed damsel, named Joan. 
Maria wore her gipsy cloak, its hood of 
scarlet drawn round her face and her 
pretty curls. 

Geoffry Clanwaring turned back with 
Miss Owen ; the keeper pursued his 
way onwards, straight down the roa(b 
Arrived at Mr. Owen’s gate, they stood 
to talk, and Joan went in. 

“ Mamma was to have gone with me, 
but she did not feel well enough this 
afternoon, so they sent Joan to bring 
me home,” explained Maria, chatteidng 
and blushing, and her heart beating 


MARIA OWEN. 


37 


wildly for love of the handsome young 
man before her. He could see the rosy 
dimples in the moonlight, he could see 
the sweet eyes cast down beneath the 
gaze of his. Every fibre within him 
thrilled in answer, for she was. more to 
him than — ay, almost than heaven. 

Love is no respecter of persons ; the 
fitness of things never enters into the 
god’s calculations. Between Geoffry 
Thomas Clauwaring, the baronet’s son, 
and Maria Owen, the obscure farmer’s 
daughter, there lay miles of that exact- 
ing gulf, called social position : never- 
theless, they had contrived to lapse into 
a passion for each other, than which 
nothing could be more pure and ardent. 
Part them, and the whole world would 
be to each as a blank wilderness. 

Sir Dene had three sons. The heir 
was entirely a fine gentleman, living 
chiefly in London, amidst his clubs and 
his gaieties and his friends in high life. 
The youngest was a soldier, already 
married, and serving in India. Geoffry, 
the second, remained at home, looking 
after things on the estate, making him- 
self quite as useful as Drew the bailiff 
did. Geoffry might generally be seen 
in velveteen shooting-coat and leather or 
beaver leggings, tramping about on foot, 
or riding on horseback, always however 
bus3^ It was whispered by Gander, a 
servant who had lived with them for 
years, that Sir Dene liked him the best 
of all his sons. The heir was cold and 
haughtj’^ ; the soldier improvident and 
cross-tempered ; Geoffry' alone had never 
given anything but duty and affection 
to his father. Out and about the land 
daily, it was thus he had formed^ the 
acquaintance of Robert Owen, and 
thence of Owen’s family. It had 
become quite an ordinary matter now 
for Geoffry Clanwaring to run in and 
out of Harebell farm at will. 

“ What were you laughing at, Ma- 
ria ? ” he asked, as they stood at the 
gate. “ You and Joan ? ” 

I was laughing at Joan. She had 
been telling me a tale of a sweetheart 
she had in her last place. It was the 
carter. He gave her up because she 
threw a can of buttermilk over him in a 
passion. Joan says he was only angr}" 
because he happened to have on a clean 
smock frock ; had it been a dirt}^ one, 
he’d not have minded.” 


Geoffry laughed. 

“ Mr. Clanwaring, I must go in. 
Mamma will be sending after me.” 

I saw George Arde to-day,” he re- 
sumed, paying no attention to the hint 
— except that he held her hand a little 
tighter — for it lay in his. 

Oh did you ? Where ? ” 

At Worcester. I went in aoout the 
sale of some barley, and met him in 
High Street.” 

“ Did he say anything about Mary ? ” 

“ No. Except that she was very del- 
icate just now.” 

Polly is always delicnte.” 

When are you going over there 
next, Maria ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” she replied, in a low, 
half-conscious tone. For the truth was, 
that whenever she did go to Worcester, 
Mr. Geoffry invariably contrived to be 
there on the self-same da3\ 

Thus they lingered, talking of one 
thing and another, oblivious of the lapse 
of time, and Maria continuing to run 
the risk of being sent for. No one 
came, however : for the best of all 
possible reasons — that it was not known 
that she was there. Mrs. Owen and 
Maiy Barber were at work together in 
the parlor, and Joan did not disturb 
them to tell of her entrance. The girl, 
experienced in the matter of sweethearts 
herself, knew what was what. But the 
time was really getting on. 

“ There has been an audacious robbery 
of gold and silver plate at one of the 
silversmiths,” observed Geoffry, sud- 
denly thinking of it. “ Worcester was 
up in arms : the Bow Street runners are 
down.” 

“ What a pity ! ” she cried. “ I hope 
the thieves won’t come near us. Indeed, 
Mr. Clanwaring, I must go in doors.” 

Placing her hand within his arm, he 
walked with her up the path and round 
to the front, slowl}’- enough. At the 
garden gate between the tall holl3>^ hedge 
they,halted again. There was not the 
slightest necessity for this : it was not 
the way indoors ; took them in short a 
few steps out of it. Perhaps the truth 
was, that one was just as ready to make 
an excuse for lingering as the other. 
The garden shone out fitfully in the 
night, now bright, now dark : just now 
it was very dark, for the moon again lay 
under a large black -cloud. Not five 


38 


DENE HOLLOW. 


minutes since, another large black one 
bad but cleared* away. 

Very dark. It might have been for 
that reason that Geoffry Clanwaring, 
leaning forward on the gate, threw his 
protecting arm round Maria, and drew 
her close to him. 

I must go in,” she whispered. 

For answer, he turned up her sweet 
face, so lovely in its frilled scarlet hood, 
and took a kiss from the cherry lips. A 
kiss ; and then another. 

“ Oh Mr. Clanwaring ! ” 

Now you shall go in, my darling — as 
it must be.” 

The moon came out of her canopy 
bright as gold, flooding the garden and 
trees and house with her light. There 
ensued another minute of lingering. It 
was broken in upon by Mr. Owen him- 
self. He saw his daughter run in ; he 
saw Geoffry standing there : and he 
seized on the opportunity to say what it 
had been in his mind to say for some few 
days past. Namely : that, though his 
house was pleased and proud to receive 
the visits of its landlord’s sou, there must 
be no approach to intimacy with Maria. 

‘‘ I understand,” said Geoffry, after a 
pause. “ Would you object to me, Mr. 
Owen ? ” 

“ Somebody else would, sir ; and that’s 
quite enough for me,” was Kobert 
Owen’s answer. 

“Who else would?” 

“ Mr. Clanwaring, you must know 
who, better than I can tell you. Your 
father, Sir Dene.” 

“ Maria is one that a prince might be 
proud to wed,” said Geoffry in his fool- 
ish impulsiveness. 

Upon that, Mr. Owen spoke ; and 
very sensibly. Unequal marriages never 
did good in the end, he said. Moreover 
he could not, and would not, have both 
his daughters wedding above their proper 
sration. 

Your elder daughter has not wedded- 
above her station,” said Geoffry, resent- 
fully. 

“ Indeed but she has, sir. You must 
see it for yourself.” 

“ I am sure George Arde is poor 
enough, Mr. Owen.” 

“ Too poor. But he’s a gentleman. 
And — suppose he were ever to come 
into Arde Hall ? Not that there’s much 
chance of it.” 


“Not a bit of chance. Old Arde says 
he shall never leave it to either kith or 
kin — the old skinflint! It would be a 
jolly good thing for George Arde and his 
wife if they got it.” 

“ Well, I had rather Polly had married 
in her own station — a farmer, say, as I 
ami But, in regard to you, Mr. Clan- 
waring, there must be no thought of 
anything of the kind. Your father 
would never forgive jmu.” 

“ If my father approved, would you 
approve, Mr. Owen ? ” 

“ Pardon me, sir, but that’s a useless 
question to go into. Sir Dene never 
would approve.” 

“ You can answer it for my own satis- 
faction,” returned Geoffry, his pleasant, 
good-natured eyes going out beseech- 
ingly to the farmer’s. “If things were 
smoothed for it in other quarters, and 
Sir Dene were willing, do you think 
well enough of me to give me Maria ? ” 

“ Yes, I do,” was the honest answer. 
“I like you very much. But that’s all 
beside the question, Mr. Clanwaring, 
as you well know, and we must go back 
to the starting point. There must be no 
thought of intimacy between jmu and 
Maria. If I saw an approach to any- 
thing of the sort, sir, I should feel that it 
la}’- in my duty to Sir Dene to forbid you 
my premises.” 

“Very well; perhaps you are right,” 
answered Geoffry, slowly coming to rea- 
son. “ I confess that I do like Maria 
very much : but I should not care to 
bring trouble upon anybody ; least of all, 
on my father. Time may alter things. 
Good night, Owen.” 

“ You are not offended with me for 
speaking, Mr. Clanwaring ? ” said the 
farmer, as he met Geoffrey’s offered 
hand. 

“ Offended ! Indeed no. You have 
only done what a straightforward man 
would do. Good night.” 

“ Good night, sir.” 

Geoffry Clanwaring set off on the 
run. He had told the gamekeeper to 
“ go on slowly ” and he would catch hinJ 
up. They had a matter of business in 
hand to-night in the village — of which 
he had lost sight while lingering with 
Maria. At the corner which bounded 
the lane he halted fora moment, half in- 
clined to turn along the road to the right 
and dash d-i^wn the pathway opposite the 


THE SHADOW ON THE HOLLOW. 


39 


Dene gates. But, as he knew the keeper 
had taken the long road— for he had to 
call at the farrier’s, and might be waiting 
there — he went straight on. 

A rather lonely, rather narrow, and 
very hilly road, this. It was but a cross- 
country road at best ; no stage-coaches 
passed on it. Geoffrey went up one hill 
and down another ; the way insensibly 
winding round always towards the vil- 
lage. In fact, to go from a given point, 
say the entrance to Arde Hall, right 
round to Hurst Leet, the highway de- 
scribed a horse-shoe, a circuit of two 
miles. At the corner of the lower turn- 
ing, which brought the village straight 
onwards in the distance, stood the prem- 
ises of the farrier and horse doctor. Cole 
was at work in the shed : and Geoffry 
went to it. 

Has Simmons been here. Cole ? ” 
Yes, sir; about half an hour ago. 
He called in to say that one of the 
horses be ill, and I am to be up the first 
thing in the morning.” 

“ Mind you are. It’s Sir Dene’s 
hunter. Good night.” 

He went straight on to the village 
now, passing sundry dwellings, most, of 
them laborers’, on either side of the 
road, and arrived at Hurst Leet. Sim- 
mons, however, was not to be found any- 
where, and Geoffry Clanwaring had had 
a fruitless walk. 

But it has afforded us an opportunity 
of seeing the road that Sir Dene was 
waging warfare with. That he was pro- 
jecting this new cutting to avoid — to be 
called henceforward, as the reader will 
find. Dene Hollow. 


CHAPTEjEl IV. 

THE SHADOW OX THE HOLLOW. 

It was lovely autumn weather. The 
Beechhurst Dene woods were glowing 
with their rich tints in the October sun- 
shine ; the sky was blue and cloudless as 
ij> the sweetest day of summer. 

Turning out at the lodge-gates of 
Beechhurst Dene, was a kind of mail 
phaeton ; a high yellow vehicle, all the 
fashion at the period. The horses were 
iron grey ; fine, valuable animals ; high 
steppers, but steady withal, and much 
liked by tLexr owner, Sir Dene Cianwar- 


ing. Sir Dene sat in the carriage to- 
day by the side of his son Geoffry, who 
was driving. Sweeping out of the ave- 
nue right across the highway, Geoffry 
turned the horses’ heads down a road 
that, lobked newly made. 

New, it was. Sir Dene Clanwaring 
had carried out his project — some deem- 
ed it his folly — and lost no time in com- 
pleting what he had set his mind upon 
— a near way to the village of Hurst 
Leet. It was a fine, white, broad road ; 
leading from Sir Dene’s gates down- 
wards — for the ground descended, you re- 
member — and winding round right into 
the middle of the hamlet. Hurst Leet 
was proud of it. Sir Dene was proud of 
it. It had cost Sir Dene more funds than 
he had believed possible; a costly toy, 
he was apt to whisper in the privacy of 
his own heart : but nevertheless he 
could afford it ; and he said complacent- 
ly that the convenience of the road 
would well repay its outlay. Some 
three weeks had elapsed now since it 
was finished ; and Sir Dene had driven 
down and up it nearly every day since. 

All trace of the Widow Barber’s cot- 
tage was gone. That estimable, but (in 
the opinion of Mr. Drew) cantankerous 
old lady, had been forced out of her 
life-long home. There had been a 
scene at her departure. Lady-day — 
the period by which she was ordered to 
be gone — came and passed; and Mrs. 
Barber had neither removed herself nor 
her chattels. Another day’s grace they 
gave her, together with a peremptory 
command : but the widow did not stir. 
She had lived in the old place for six- 
and-seventy years, she pleaded ; she 
could not in the nature of things, last 
much longer — oh if they would but let 
her stay in it for that short remaining 
time ! Earnestly did she pray for this 
boon as though she had been praying 
for her life. Sir Dene was made ac- 
quainted with this contumacious behav- 
ior — doubly cantankerous, wrathful 
Drew called her now — and he. Sir Dene, 
full of wrath also, issued the edict for 
her ejection. Geoffry Clanwaring, ever 
good-hearted, alone put in protest, ask- 
ing his father to grant the poor distress- 
ed woman’s prayer, seconding her plea 
that it could not be for long. But Sir 
Dene sharply told his son not to be fool- 
ish — the new road could not’ wait for 


40 


DENE HOLLOW. 


her pleasure. So, on the following 
morning, sundry men presented them- 
selves at the Widow Barber’s, quietly 
but forcibly put her goods outside the 
door, and turned her cow and pig and* 
chickens into the road. She had to fol- 
low then : and she went meekly forth, 
weeping and wringing her hands. 
Mary Barber got a couple of rooms for 
her mother and the things to take refuge 
in ; and the cow and pig and fowls were 
sold to the highest bidder on the spot. 
But the fact created a great deal of 
scandal in the neighborhood, and Sir 
Dene got some harsh blame. Sir Dene 
excused himself by saying that the 
extreme measure of ejecting her in that 
very summary manner belonged to his 
bailiff, Drew. But he could not get out 
of the fact that he had given his edict 
for her removal : and Jonathan Drew 
might have reasonably retorted on the 
grumblers with the question — How else 
W'as he to get the old woman out when 
she refused to go ? 

As if tormented with the fear that 
she might be coming back again — after 
the fashion of the slippers in the East- 
ern tale — the men lost not a moment in 
commencing the work of destruction. 
Some bricks were out of the walls be- 
fore the weeping woman was beyond 
view. A rumor went abroad of what 
was going on, and numbers of gazers 
came flocking up to watch. They stay- 
ed to see it, talking freely. The doors 
were off then, the windows out. The 
two chimnies could be no more seen. 
What with the work of dismantling, 
with the goods lying in a heap outside, 
wdth the let-loose cow and pig, and what 
with the increasing spectators, such a 
scene of excitement and confusion had 
not been witnessed by the rural popula- 
tion in their lives. It remained on their 
memories as an epoch of local history 
to be talked of at convivial meetings 
and related by father to son : Sir Dene 
Clanwaring’s turning out of the poor 
old Widow Barber, when she was nigh 
upon her eightieth year ! 

Hands were quick. On the follow- 
ing day the rubbish of bricks and mor- 
tar was ready to be carted away ; and 
on the subsequent morning the new road 
was begun. Begun at both ends : at 
the upper one opposite the gates of 
Beechhurst Dene ; at the lower one at 
Hurst Leet. Sir Dene was all impa- 


tience for the way to be completed, and 
many hands made light work. Never a 
thought cast he to the grief of the un- 
happy woman who had been rudely 
thrust from her shell, and whose heart 
was breaking. Sir Dene was not by 
nature a hard or harsh man ; but he had 
certainly acted both hardly and harshly 
in this. 

So I returned, and considered all 
the oppressions that are done under the 
sun : and behold the tears of such as 
were oppressed, and they had no com- 
forter ; and on the side of their oppress- 
ors there was power j but they had no 
comforter.” 

If ever there was a signal exemplifi- 
cation of the truthful teaching of one, 
to whom God had given more than 
earthly wisdom, it surely existed in this 
instance. 

And now, behold the beautiful road 
completed — smooth, compact, level as a 
bowling-green. See it this early morn- 
ing as Sir Dene drives down it. The 
hill is at this end, commencing at the 
very onset ; a long hill, but a gentle 
one : its descent not steep at all ; not 
enough to cause good horses to slacken 
speed, either down or up. No more 
trace is to be seen of the widow’s cot- 
tage, of its garden, pig-sty, cow-shed, 
than if they had never existed : the 
new road runs right through the site. 
As to the meadow where her cow was 
wont to graze. Sir Dene had ploughed 
it up ; fencing it in from the road. On 
the other side, the pathway remains 
still ; the high bank above it remains ; 
and the extending branches of the tow- 
ering, waving elm trees cast their sha- 
dows on the road in the sunlight, just 
as the same shadows had used to be cast 
on the cottage. A fine road : and just 
now the pride of Sir Dene Clanwaring’s 
heart. It had not been Sir Dene’s in- 
tention to bestow' upon it any particular 
name ; he did not think about it : but 
the w'orkmen when making it, began^.to 
speak of it familiarly amidst themselves • 
as the hollow — probably because they 
had a portion of it to hollow out. This 
was caught up by Hurst Leet, and con- 
verted into Dene’s Hollow. The appel- 
lation grew at length into Dene Hol- 
low.” Dene Hollow it remained. 

Away they bowled, Sir Dene and his 


THE SHADOW ON THE HOLLOW. 


41 


Bon. Geoffry, an experienced driver, 
had the reins well in hand. The calm, 
bright, lovely autumn day was good to 
be out in. 

Who’s that, Geoffry ? ” asked the 
baronet, as a tall woman, her face nearly 
hidden under its large quilted bonnet 
of faded green silk, passed on the path, 
and curtsied to Sir Dene. 

It is Mary Barber, sir.” And 
Geoffry silently wondered that the 
woman upon whose mother had been 
committed that act of injustice, should 
continue to render active homage to Sir 
Dene. But manners in those days were 
widely different from what they are in 
these; the reverence for the great was 
an institution. 

“ Oh, ay ; servant at Farmer Owen’s, 
I believe,” remarked Sir Dene airily : 
for indeed the episode of the ejection, 
together with Mary Barber’s pleading 
visit, had well-nigh passed from his 
mind : at least, it had lost its sting of 
annoyance. ‘‘I didn’t know ner in that 
poke-bonnet. How is that daughter of 
Owen’s, Geoffry ? — she who married old 
Arde’s relative. Any better ? — You go 
there sometimes, don’t you ? ” 

“ To George Arde’s ? — Now and then, 
sir, when I am at Worcester. Mrs. 
Arde is ill still.” 

“ Talking of Owen, he wants his barn 
— Take care, Geoff.” 

Without the slightest warning, with- 
out any apparent cause, the horses had 
started. Both of them. Started vio- 
lently, as if in some great terror, and 
sprung right across the road with a 
bound. It was just in the spot where 
the cottage had been. Geoffry Clan- 
waring did all that practised driver 
could do ; but it was as nothing. The 
frightened animals bounded on the bank 
and off again, upsetting the phaeton. 
There thej^ stood plunging and kicking. 

Geoffry was on his legs in an instant ; 
uninjured, save for a bruise on the right 
shoulder and elbow — which he did not 
feel until later. Some men who hap- 
pened to be passing on the upper road, 
by the gates of Beechhurst Dene, came 
running down. The traces were cut, one 
of the shivering horses fell, and lay 
still ; the other they soothed to quiet- 
ness. 

Which gave them time to look into 
the condition of Sir Dene. He had 


been pitched over Geofifry’s head, and 
was of course much shaken. Moreover, 
he could not get up without assistance. 
There was some damage to one of his 
ankles. A severe sprain, they found ; 
not a fracture. 

It might have been worse,” re- 
marked Sir Dene. “ What in the world 
was it, Geoffry, that frightened the 
horses ? ” 

“ I don’t know, sir : I am lost in won- 
dering,” was Geoffry’s puzzled answer. 

“ There was nothing whatever to startle 
them.” 

‘‘ I am sure I saw nothing.” 

“ There was nothing. Not a creature 
was near us, human or animal. How 
shall we get jmu home, sir? ” 

“ Oh, I can manage to limp up, with 
your arm on one side, and somebody 
else’s on the other,” returned the baro- 
net. “ I hope the horses are all right. 
It might have been worse for all of us, 
Geoff, my boy.” 

Indeed it might, father.” 

Yes it might have been worse. But 
nevertheless one of the horses, in plung- 
ingij had fatally injured himself, and he 
had to be shot. Cole, the farrier, had a 
day or two’s hope over it — that he could 
save him — but it proved futile. Sir 
Dene was in a fine way over that, and 
told Cole he would almost as soon have 
been shot himself. The affair created 
nearly as much stir and talk in Hurst 
Leet, as the turning out of the Widow 
Barber had done. 

Two or three evenings subsequent to 
this, Mary Barber set off to see her 
mother — a small jug of buttered-ale in 
her hand, which Mrs. Owen had caused 
Maiy to make. “ Buttered-ale ” was a 
cordial thought much of in those days, 
and often sent by the wealthy to the 
aged or sick. Mrs. Barber had found 
refuge with John Pound and his wife, 
renting their two upper rooms. Or, 
rather, one? room and a loft : the last 
being needed to stow avva}’- the portion 
of her spare furniture that had not been 
sold. The cottage , was situated on the 
upper road, near Arde Hall ; Pound 
being Squire Arde’s wagoner. 

Mary Barber put her best foot fore- 
most ; not only because it locked likely 
to rain, but that the buttered-ale should 
reach her mother while it was hot. The 


42 


DENE HOLLOW. 


old lady was seated on a bit of carpet 
before the fire ; her head leaning side- 
ways on a chair. 

“ Why, mother, you be low in the 
world ! ” was Mary’s salutation. “ What 
be you down there for ? ” 

Mrs. Barber got up without making 
any particular answer, and took her 
seat in the chair. “It’s a bit shivery 
to-night, ain’t it, child ? ” she asked. 
And a spectator might have smiled at 
tall, hard, bony, middle-aged Mary Bar- 
ber being addressed as “ child.” 

“ No, it’s quite warm, mother.” 

Could it be that this poor shrunken 
creature was the once plump, healthy, 
w^ell-conditioned woman who had lived 
in that disputed cottage? Was it pos- 
sible that- only a few months had made 
so great a change ? Alas, yes. And 
the marvel was that she had lasted so 
long as this. 

Literally she was no better than skin 
and bone. The face had lost its round- 
ness, the cheeks their fresh tinge ; the 
eyes were sunken, and dim with a sad- 
ness that might be seen and felt. !^^o- 
thing had apparentlj" ailed her to cause 
the change ; her bodily health, save 
that’ the appetite had faded, had seemed 
not to sillier. But inward grief, when 
it is hopeless and excessive, induces de- 
cay more rapidly in the aged than sick- 
ness of body. Old Hester Barber’s 
heart was broken. 

“ I’ve not been able to run down this 
last two days, mother, as we’ve had our 
big wash on,” said Mary, looking rather 
keenly at the worn face by the help of 
the fire-light, for she thought it was 
more changed than ever. She fancied, 
moreover, that it had a gray kind of 
tinge on it, which she had never ob- 
served before : and she did not much 
like to see it now. “ Here’s a nice drop 
of buttered-ale, that the missis has sent : 
it’ll do you good.” 

“ The missis is over kind, Mary ; 
carry back my duty to her and my best 
thanks. But I don’t feel as if I could 
tmjjch it, child. I don’t feel to want 
nldfhing.” 

“That’s all nonsense, mother. I’ll 
light the candle.” 

Holding the candle, so that the light 
fell on her mother’s face, Mary Barber 
scanned it well. Yes, it certainly was 
gray to-night, with a peculiar, leaden 


grayness. She put the buttered - ale 
into a basin, and got a spoon. 

“ Now then, mother, sup it up afore 
it’s quite cold. Never mind about not 
wanting it : it’ll cheer you up and warm 
you whether jmu want it or not,” 

Holding the basin so that it rested on 
her knee, the djnng woman — for she 
was dying — sipped a few slow spoonfuls. 
Mary sat opposite, chatting. 

“ Did ye hear o’ the accident to Sir 
Dene Clan waring, mother ? ” 

“ A}’’, I heerd on’t. Pound, he come 
up stairs here o’ purpose to tell me.” 

“ It’ll cost a sight o’ money to mend 
the carriage. Cole’s son ^ays. And 
they’ve had to shoot the best horse.” 

Mrs. Barber, her spoon resting passive 
in the buttered-ale, shook her head in 
solemn silence. 

“ I had passed ’em not a minute afore, 
coming up the path from Hurst Leet, 
where I had been on an errand for mis- 
sis,” continued Mary. “ All fine and 
grand it* looked, that turn-out; the 
horses, for power and safet}’’, you might 
have took a lease on. Before I had w’ell 
got into the upper road by the gates, 
there was a startling noise down there, 
and I looked back. Mother, you might 
have floored me with a word, when I see 
the carriage and the two gentlemen 
lying on the ground, and the cattle 
plunging.” 

“ Ay, ay,” murmured Mrs. Barber. 

“ I didn’t believe my own eyes. And 
what had done it I could not think, for 
they had been going along as steady as 
might be. They don’t know what in 
the world it could ha’ been that the 
horses started at. Young Mr. Clanwar- 
ing was at our house yesterday, and 1 
heard him tell the master that it ’ud 
always be a puzzle to him. Eat the 
stuff, mother.” 

“ It was the Shadow,” remarked* the 
old woman, dropping her voice almost to 
a whisper. “I’d lay my life, Mary, 
’twas the shadow.” 

“ The what ? ” cried Mary. 

“The Shadow.” 

Mary Barber, who had really not 
caught the word at first, supposed that 
this must allude to the shadows cast on 
the road by the trees. To any one but 
her mother she would have met the as- 
sertion with unsparing ridicule. 

“ ’Twas not likely to have been that. 


THE SHADOW ON THE HOLLOW. 


43 


mother. Why, the trees be there al- 
ways ; and their shadows too, when the 
sun’s behind ’em. Them horses’ feet 
feel just as much at home amid the 
shadows as they do amid the stones.” 

“ I said the Shadow, Mary. Not the 
shadow o’ the trees.” 

“ What Shadow ?” 

The one I saw on the road.” 

Mary Barber believed the old mind 
was wandering. She stared for a min- 
ute without speaking. 

“ Eat your buttered-ale, mother.” 

Instead of that, Mrs. Barber stretched 
out her withered arm, and put the basin 
down on the table at her elbow. 

“ There’s a shadow on that road, 
child. The poor dumb animals saw it 
and w’ere frightened at it. They see 
sometimes what man can’t see. Maybe 
it’ll come now and again at will, to lie 
on the Hollow.” 

Mary Barber was sufficiently super- 
stitious herself, and had seen at least 
one ghost, as her friends knew" ; but she 
was wholly at fault in this. Instead of 
debating the point, she stared harder 
than before at the gray face. 

It’s a shadow to frighten the best of 
horses, it is, an’ they get to see it, Mary. 
It frightened me.” 

“ Be 3"ou a w^andering, mother ? ” de- 
manded Mary Barber, in rather a hard 
tone. 

“ Me a wandering ! What put that 
in your head, child ? ” 

Why, what else is it ? A talking 
in this w^ay about shadows.” 

How long is it since this new road 
was opened ? ” rejoined Mrs. Barber — 
and certainly, in all save the subject, 
she seemed to be quite as rational as 
usual. “ What do they call it again — 
Hollow Dene ? ” 

“ Dene Hollow. It’s more than three 
w"eeks now.” 

‘‘ Ay. Three weeks o’ Tuesday last. 
John Pound, he comes up stairs the 
evening afore, Monday, that was, and 
said the workmen was a clearing off 
their tools, and the road ’ud be open 
to the parish on the morrow. When the 
morrow came, I thought I’d put on my 
old red cloak and go out and take a look 
at it. It was a fine, sunshiny, beauti- 
ful day, warm September weather. I got 
to the place, Mary; and I leaned my 
arms on the fence opposite the Dene 


gates, and looked at it. A fine smooth 
road it w"as, a’most fine enough to have 
broken an old woman’s heart for. I 
didn’t know the place again. Not a 
brick was there left o’ the poor home- 
stead : not as much as a stone to mark 
out where it had been. ’Twas all swept 
clean away, the walls, and the yellow 
jes’min that used to climb on ’em.” 

“ It’s said they’ve got that yellow 
jes’min rooted now at Beechhurst Dene,” 
interrupted Mary Barber. “ ’Twas rare 
and flourishing always.” 

“ But while my eyes looked this way 
and that,” pursued Mrs. Barber, “ a try- 
ing to tell whether the home had stood 
a inch nearer or further, they grew to see 
that there was a shadow lying on the 
road. An awful kind of shadow, Mary, 
just about in the spot where the house 
had stood. These eyes saw it, child. 
And they’d never seen anything like it 
afore.” 

“Was it the shape of the house?” 
questioned Marj^ — perhaps as much in 
mockery as earnestness. 

“If wasn’t any shape at all. It was 
just as though a darhiess lay on that 
part o’ hollow, or as if you were looking 
at it through smoked glass. Mary, I’ll 
tell you what it put me in mind of — the 
vallej" of the shadow of death.” 

“ Mother ! ” 

“ It did.” 

“ I don’t think it’s right to say that.” 

“I’d not be the one to say anything 
wrong. But truth’s truth ; and the 
thought came into my mind as I stood 
there.” 

“What was it like?” questioned 
Mary Barber, in a somewhat more rev- 
erent tone. 

“It was just a shadow of darkness; 
nothing else. But there was nothing to 
throw it there, and it made me tremble 
all over. I’ve trembled since when I 
think of it. Bandy Black came by at 
the moment, and I asked him to look — 
there has been a great deal o’ talk again 
Black in the place, but the man has al- 
ways shown himself civil to me. He 
stopped and put his two arms on the 
rail beside me, and looked on to where I 
pointed ; but he could not see it. He 
couldn’t see it. He said it was as fine 
and bright all down the new road, every 
inch of it, as it was that day elsewhere. 
But the shadow was there, Mary, a]l the 


44 


DENE HOLLOW. 


same. You couldn’t tell where it begun 
or where it ended : just that bit o’ the 
road — ten or twenty yards, may be — lay 
in the dark.” 

To hear Mrs. Barber tell this, her 
tone subdued in awe, her dim eyes gaz- 
ing into the fire as though she could see 
the shadow there, her whole manner and 
bearing imparting an impression sol- 
emnly earnest, brought a curious sensa- 
tion to Mary. 

“ I will take a look myself the next 
time I pass by, mother.” 

Mrs. Barber shook her head. You 
mighn’t see anything. I don’t think 
you will. I went out again the next 
day and couldn’t see it. Brooding over 
it here since, it had come to me to think 
that perhaps no other human eye, save 
mine, will ever see it. Black couldn’t. 
But the Shadow was there all the while 
he looked : never a doubt o’ that.” 

“ It has a curious sound to hear,” was 
Mary’s Barber’s answer. 

“ Ay. But it’s true. I never was 
surer of anything in this world. "Well, 
I’d a’most forgot it, Mary : I thought it 
was just a thing unaccountable, that 
had come, and passed. But when John 
Pound brought the news o’ the upset in 
the same spot, sajdng it was quite a 
mystery what had startled the horses, 
for there was nobody a-nigh and nothing 
to cause it, it flashed over me that they 
must have seen the same Shadow that I 
saw — and I don’t know how I felt, so 
struck and dumbfounded. It is to be 
hoped it’ll never come there again. Sir 
Dene turned me out,” added the old 
woman after a pause, “ but I don’t wish 
him ill. I’d do him any good if it lay 
in my power.” 

Well, mother, 1 feel sore at him; I 
can tell you that.” 

“ Ay, so did I at first But the Lord 
has been good and shown me a bit of 
His light. When Heaven’s opening to 
us, Mary, we are glad to forgive those 
that have injured us. I didn’t think 
enough of those things till I came here 
— mercy, and charity to others — and my 
own sins and mistakes. I never might 
have thought of ’em. And so — and so 
perhaps it has all happened for the best. 
One must get one’s heart broken, as 
mine’s been, before one can be at full 
love and peace with all the world, friends 
and enemies.” 


Mary Barber did not quite know what 
to make of her mother. She had never 
seen her like this. All Mrs. Barber had 
been noted for since she lost her home, 
was shrinking, silent abstraction. She 
would answer questions put to her, but 
rarely spoke of her own accord. 

“ I wish you’d finish that buttered- 
ale, mother.” 

Mrs. Barber took a sip or two ; and 
then let the spoon fall again, 

‘‘I can’t, 'Mary. The heart goes 
again it; and something seems wrong 
with my swallow. Leave it be : maybe 
I’ll try it later.” 

Shall I help you to get to bed, 
mother ? ” 

No. ’T isn’t time.” 

I must be going soon. Is there 
anything else I can do ? ” 

“ You may read ^just a few verses o’ 
the Bible, if you like. My sight’s got 
good for nothing.” 

More and more amazed, for Mary h'ad 
never heard such a request from her 
mother on a week-day, she got up to 
reach the Bible — one that had been in 
use on Sundays as long as she could 
remember. But she suddenly discovered 
that she had not brought her spectacles 
with her — and upon looking for her 
mother’s, could not find them. Mrs. 
Barber seemed disappointed. 

“ Oh well, never mind. It wouldn’t 
have took you five minutes, Mary ? ” 

It’s not the time, mother; it is that 
I can’t see. Where’s the large Bible — 
Father’s ? I could see the print of that.” 

It was on the top shelf of the press 
by the bed, and Mary had to stand on a 
stool to get it down. A large Bible 
covered with green baize, that had been 
Thomas Barber’s ; one they never used. 

She dusted it, sat down, and read the 
chapter asked for — the 14tii of St. John. 
Mrs. Barber listened attentively. 

“ Ay, ay,” she murmured when it was 
over, “ many mansions there. There’ll 
be no sorrow up there, child, and no 
frightening shadow.” 

“ I wonder what’s inside this cover ? ” 
cried Mary ; who, in passing her hand 
abstractedly over the green baize, found 
that something lay between it and the 
book. 

“ There’s nothing there.” 

There is, mother. It feels like a 
thickish letter. May I look ? ” 


IN ST. PETER’S CHURCH. 


45 


You can look. I know there’s noth- 
ing.” 

Cutting the thread that confined the 
covering, she took it off ; and found a 
piece of brown paper folded together, 
with two or three papers inside it. Had 
Mary Barbers pulses been given to 
flutter, they had certainly fluttered then 
— for a sure prevision, like an instinct, 
told her what was coming. Two of 
them were old receipts for rent: the 
other was the missing paper, given by 
Mr. Honey thorn. 

Here it is at last, mother ! ” 

But the time had gone by for Mrs. 
Barber to be moved about anything in 
this world. She just looked round from 
the fire, but did not take the document 
in her hand. 

1 remember now : I did put it there. 
I never thought of the Bible when we 
were looking for it. Every other place 
but that. You’ll show it to Sir Dene, 
Mary, that he may see what I said was 
true.” 

“ Yes, I’ll show it to Sir Dene — and 
to others also,” was the emphatic answer. 

Mary Barber wished her mother good 
night, again, urging the buttered-ale 
upon her, and departed, the paper safely 
stowed away in her pocket. She stepped 
into Mrs. Pound’s kitchen, to say a 
word. 

You’ll give a look up to mother afore 
you go to bed, Matty Pound. She 
seems queer to-night.” 

“ How — queer ? ” asked Matty Pound, 
who sat mending her husband’s Sunday 
coat. 

“ Well, I hardly know. She don’t 
seem like she always does. She won’t 
drink the buttered-ale I brought.” 

Mrs. Pound thought the state must 
be serious not to take that, I’ll be 
sure and go up,” said she. 

And if she should be worse in the 
morning, send little Jack to the farm to 
let me know, please. Our wash is not 
got up yet, and I can’t possibly get out 
afore night — unless it’s for something 
particular. If she should become ill, 
we must get Mr. Priar to her. Good 
night, Matty Pound.” 

Matty Pound responded to the saluta- 
tion, and Mary Barber went home. The 
paper in her pocket felt as good as 
though it had been a hundred-pound 
note there. 


“ My poor mother always said she 
hoped the paper would come to light 
before she died. Sir Dene ’ll see 
whether she was telling lies now! And 
Jonathan Drew, he’ll see — but Ae’s not 
worth a thought o’ salt.” 

On the following morning, Mary Bar- 
ber was toasting some bacon in the 
kitchen for her master’s breakflist, when 
she was surprised by the appearance of 
John Pound. Not little Jack ; John 
himself. He came to bring her ill news 
— which he got out awkwardly. Mrs. 
Barber was dead. 

Matty Pound had seen her to bed the 
night before, all comfortable. Upon go- 
ing into the room in the morning, they 
found her dead. She had died quietly 
in her sleep. 

^‘The Squire telled me to come up 
t’ye,” cried Pound to the dismayed 
Mary Barber. “ He was passing, and 
heard what ’twas, and said ‘ Go up at 
once, never mind t’work for a bit.’ 
Matty says there baint no call to fret 
too much ; she must ha’ gone off wi’out 
pain, as quank as a lamb.” 

Ayr The broken heart was at rest. 


CHAPTER Y. 

IN ST. Peter’s church. 

In a small but pretty house within 
the environs of St. Peter’s parish in the 
suburbs of the city of Worcester, sat 
four people in the growing dusk of a 
November afternoon : George Arde and 
his wife ; Maria Owen, and Geoffry 
Clanwaring. 

George Arde, a man of middle height, 
of dark ej’es and hair, with a pale, hon- 
est, but plain face, somewhat stern in its 
character, was about thirty. He had 
small, independent means, derived from 
his hop-yards. When it was a good 
year for hops, George Arde was flourish- 
ing : when the hops failed, he had to 
look after his shillings as well as his 
pounds. Taking one year with another, 
his income averaged perhaps two hun- 
dred pounds. No great excess of means : 
and it maj’- perhaps appear singular that 
Parmer Owen should have regretted his 
daughter’s marriage to him, on the score 
that it exalted her above her station. 
But his view of it was right. George 


46 


DENE HOLLOW. 


Arde was a' gentleman by birth, and 
well connected; he moved in a sphere 
above that of a farmer; one to which 
the latter would not have been admitted 
on ail equality. At the time of the 
marriage Mr. Owen had protested 
against it — yielding at last only a reluc- 
tant consent ; but George Arde, a wil- 
ling captive to Mary Owen’s beauty, 
wmuld not hear of giving her up. As 
to the remote contingency that he might 
succeed to Squire Arde’s wealth, none 
looked o*u it as a surer chimera than 
George himself. He and the Squire 
wxre not very nearly related ; George 
had never received the smallest favor 
from him, never the slightest intimation 
that he might hope to inherit as much 
as a mourning ring: and he certainly 
did not look for it. The Squire had 
other relatives, as near — or rather, as 
distant — as he ; but none expected to be 
the better for him. As to George Arde’s 
own prospects, he intended to put by a 
little money every good hop year, buy 
more yards, and so get rich that way. 
We all have schemes in the head for 
making ourselves wealthy in course of 
time. 

Mrs. Arde sat by the fire, a baby 
of some four months old sleeping in her 
arms. It was very precious to the 
mother, this little thing ; and they had 
named it by her own name, Mary. Fra- 
gile, delicate, attenuated, but exquisitely 
beautiful, was Mrs. Arde. There seemed 
to be no strength in her, no life-blood. 
A flush would appear on her cheeks to- 
’ wards the close of the afternoon ; but 
at other times her face was as pale as 
alabaster : you might see the blue veins 
underneath the clear skin. George 
Arde feared the paleness less than he 
did the flush : for the latter looked sus- 
piciously like hectic. There were mo- 
ments when a horrible prevision came 
over him — that he should lose her : but 
he strove to drive it away, even from his 
own heart ; and he never spoke of it now. 
Maria Owen had been staying with her 
sister for several weeks. Mr. and Mrs. 
Owen willingly spared her: they also 
had secret fears about Mary’s health. 
But now that ]\Irs. Arde seemed to be 
getting somewhat stronger — as in truth 
she did so seem — Maria was to go 
home : and it had been settled that her 
father was to take her back with him 


when he came to market on the follow- 
ing Saturday. 

And that, Maria’s sojourn in the 
house, accounted for the frequent pres- 
ence of Geoffry Clan waring. Hardly a 
day passed but on some pretext or other 
Mr. Geofify paid a visit to Worcester. 
Sir Dene, utterly unsuspicious, told him 
he was getting restlessly fond of riding. 
Not that Geoffry alwaj^s rode in : he 
walked often. Just now Sir Dene, who 
had recovered from the sprain in his 
ancle, was staying in London, and Geof- 
fry was entirely his own master in re- 
gard to his movements, accountable to 
nobody. He had walked in this after- 
noon : and he now had to walk back 
again. Earlier than usual, he intended 
to go : but he had business at home that 
night with Jonathan Drew. 

And you really cannot stay for 
tea?” asked Mrs. Arde, as he shook 
bands with her to leave. 

“Not this evening, thank you. I 
wish I could. Good night,, Arde.” 

“ Good night, Geoffry.” 

“ I wish you would just come as far 
as the gate with me, Maria. I have 
something to say to you.” 

Geoffry Clanwariug turned his head 
to ask this as he was quitting the room. 
Maria blushed painfully, and hesitated 
— hesitated because of the pr^ence of 
the others. But Geofiffj^ held open the 
door, waiting for her,, and she timidly 
followed him. That Mr. and Mrs. 
Arde were tacitly aware of the state of 
aftairs^ between Sir Dene’s son and 
Maria — namely, that he was courting 
her, as the phrase ran — could but be a 
matter of course ; otherwise they had 
possessed neither sense nor perception. 
They did not interfere. George Arde 
felt that all interference would be use- 
less, for he remembered his own case : 
and it reallj’" was no concern of his, that 
he should make or mar. Mrs. Arde 
trembled a little : she saw insurmount- 
able difiSculties before them ; and once 
she spoke just a word of warning to her 
sister. “ Papa can never give his con- 
sent, Maria. It would put him all 
wrong with Sir Dene.” Maria answer- 
ed nothing: but the sadness that over- 
spread her face showed to Mary Arde 
how perfectly she understood the hope- 
lessness of the future ; and that Mr. 
Owen’s consent was a thing never to bo 


IN ST. PETER’S CHURCH. 


47 


looked for. And so, Mr. and Mrs. Ardo 
had gone on, tacitly sanctioning the 
state of matters, inasmncli as they did 
not put a stop to Geoffry’s visits. He 
had found many a moment for seeing 
Maria alone ; for George Arde would be 
out and about, and the delicate young 
mother had often to remain in her 
chamber. But this was the first time 
Mr. Clanwaring had gone so far as to 
ask Maria to go out with him. 

“ George,’^ whispered the wife, as the 
room door closed, “ I do feel that we are 
incurring a great responsibility in suffer- 
ing this. Should it ever be discovered 
at home, papa will say so.” 

“ How is it to be helped ? ” returned 
George Arde. “ We can do nothing, 
either way. It’s not to be supposed, 
Polly, that I should go off to her father, 
or to his father, and tell about it ! ” 

Well — no. Of course not. At any 
rate, it will be over on Saturday,” added 
Mrs. Arde with a sigh of relief. “ The 
responsibility, I mean. Maria returns 
home then, and I shall be glad of it ; 
much as I regret to lose her.” 

Meanwhile Maria, a light shawl 
thrown over her shoulders, that she had 
caught up in passing out, was pacing 
down the path on Mr. Clanwaring’s arm. 
George Arde could see them through 
the window in the dusk. It was some 
such a i|ight as the one already told of, 
wlien the two men with their burden of 
plate had gone stealing up Harebell 
Lane: moonlight, but very gusty. A 
cold November evening. 

“ Everything is arranged and in readi- 
ness, Maria,” began Geoffry. ‘‘ I saw 
the clerg^'man this afternoon, and I’ve 
got the license. Nine o’clock, mind. 
You will find me at the church waiting 
for you.” 

For Mr. Geoffry Clanwaring had suc- 
ceeded in obtaining Maria Owen’s con- 
sent to marry him. They meant to take 
French leave : get married quietly, and 
tell the world afterwards. Such wed- 
dings were rather common in those 
daj^s ; and were regarded with less 
reprehension than they would be in 
these. To do Maria justice, she had at 
first steadily refused : but Geoffry had 
eloquently pointed out that there was 
no middle course ; nothing between that, 
and separation. And, to separate, was 
beyond the philosophy of either. 


“ I cannot possibly see how I shall 
get away from here in my white dress,” 
she answered. ‘‘ The season is too far 
advanced for wearing white in a morn- 
ing now. If they saw me, they might 
suspect something.” 

“ Put on a big shawl,” suggested 
Geoffry. “ Or come in a colored dress : 
what does it matter ? ” 

At the foot of the little garden there 
ran a sheltered walk behind the hedge, 
secure from observation. Geoffry turned 
into it. 

I want to try on the ring, love.” 

He had bought it that afternoon at 
the silversmith’s. The same one from 
whom the gold and silver plate had been 
stolen ; which robbery, as to its perpe- 
trators, had never been discovered, in 
spite of the cunning of the Bow Street 
runners. Mr. Geoffry found he had 
guessed the size well : the friendly night 
hid the blushes on Maria’s sweet face, 
as he told her so. 

“ Oh but, Geoffry, I scarcely dare to 
think of it ! ” she said imploringly. “ I 
tremble for the consequences. And be- 
sides, it is not a right thing for us to 
do.” 

“ It is quite right, my love. It can 
injure no one. When once my father 
knows jmu, and finds that we are happy, 
he will forgive all. And you are aware 
that Mr. Owen would give you to me 
himself, so far as I am alone concerned.” 

I have never disobeyed my father 
and mother before,” she said bursting 
into tears. 

Geoffry Clanwaring kissed the tears 
away. The gentle, lovely face, v^ry sad 
then, lay passively against him, and he 
took kiss after kiss from it, as he whis- 
peringly reassured her with all the elo- 
quence love is master of. And thus 
they parted — for “the last time before 
their wedding-day. 

The church of St. Peter’s was open 
in the morning. A damp old church in 
the region of Frog Lane, that you 
stepped down to as if into a vault. The 
clergyman was in the vestry ; the clerk 
fidgeted about the pews. Geoffry Clan- 
waring, in bridegroom’s attire, stood 
looking anxiously from the door. 

A panting, breathless girl came in. 
A most lovely, dimpled, timid, shrink- 
ing girl, who took off her red gipsy 
cloak as she entered, which had served 


48 


DENE PIOLLOW. 


partially to cover her. Her wedding 
dress was of white sprigged muslin — it 
had been a present to her years ago 
from her godmother — and a straw hat 
trimmed with a wreath of pale blush 
roses. 

“God bless you, my darling!” cried 
Geoffry, seizing upon her. “ It is seven 
minutes past nine, and I was all upon 
thorns.” 

“ 1 was so afraid,” she whispered. 
“I did not dare come out of my room 
for fear of any one’s meeting me on the 
stairs.” 

“ I shall want you to stand father-in- 
church to this young lady,” said Geoffry 
to the clerk, slipping a very substantial 
fee into that functionary’s hand. 

“ At your pleasure, sir.” 

The clergyman came out in his sur- 
plice, and took his place. The clerk 
directed them where to kneel ; standing 
himself at Maria’s elbow. There was 
no bridesmaid ; tbe clerk was to be 
“ fatber-in-church ” and give the bride 
away. It has been remarked that such 
weddings, unattended, were tolerably 
common then ; and the clergyman made 
no fuss about this one. He saw that the 
license was in order, asked a question or 
two, and proceeded with his work. 

Karel}” has a handsomer couple knelt 
before the altar, never one more attrac- 
tive. He, tall and strong, with his fair 
Saxon beauty, his kindly blue eyes, his 
golden hair; she in her gentle, shrink- 
ing, blushing loveliness. The clergy- 
man pronounced them man and wife, 
and gave the bridegroom, at his own 
request, a certificate. 

The weather had culminated into a 
downfall of rain when they got out again. 
It had been a dull, grey, threatening 
morning, and now the rain had com- 
menced. Not very hard, as yet. Maria 
took her white India muslin up under 
her cloak, and tripped along on Geoff- 
ry’s arm. Thanks to the umbrella — 
which he had had the precaution to 
bring from home — and the rainy streets, 
they got into Mr. Arde’s without observ- 
ation. 

In consequence of Mrs. Arde’s*delicate 
state, and perhaps also of the exactions 
of the baby, breakfast there had recent- 
ly been taken very late, more especiall}” 
when she attempted to come down to it 
— as she had this morning. The tea 


was only being made ; and Maria’s es- 
capade had not been discovered : it was 
supposed she had not yet come out of her 
chamber. Geoffry w”ent in first, in his 
light overcoat. 

“ Why, Geoffry I ” exclaimed George 
Arde with intense surprise. “ You are 
in town early ! ” 

Geoffry threw his coat back, and they 
saw his costume — a gala one. Quite at 
the first moment, no suspicion as to the 
why, was aroused. George Arde, as he 
stared, thought there might be some 
grand breakfhst in the town, that Mr. 
Clanwaring had come in for. - 

“ Is anything going on in Worcester 
to-day, Geoffry ? ” 

“ Not that I know of. I have been 
getting married.” 

He turned to the door, and brought 
Maria in, scarlet cloak and all. Mr. 
Ajrde looked from one to the other; his 
wife sunk into a chair, bewildered. 

“ Oh, Maria ! ” she gasped. 

Maria flew to her, and hid her face on 
her bosom in a passion of hysterical 
tears. They could not soothe her : 
emotion, suppressed hitherto, had its way 
now. 

“ Oh, Mary ! forgive me ! ” came the 
sobbing cry. 

Geoffry tenderly took off the hat and 
cloak, and stroked the hand with its 
new wedding ring fondly within^his own. 
Mrs. Arde was pale as death. 

“ You — are — surely—^not really mar- 
ried 1” she exclaimed. 

“ Here’s the certificate,” said Geoffry, 
handing it to Mr. Arde. “ It’s all in 
form. We were married at your parish 
church — St. Peter’s.” 

“Well, you are a clever fellow !” cried 
Mr. Arde, half admiringly, half angrily. 

“ And my father and mother ! — oh, 
what a blow it will be to them ! ” be- 
wailed Mrs. Arde, weeping with Maria. 

“ I hope not,” answered Geoffry. 
“They both like me.” 

“ Who is to break it to them ? ” 

“ I ; of course. I shall go over there 
to-day or to-morrow for the purpose. 
You won’t refuse to give us some break- 
fast, will you, Arde ? ” 

Mr. Arde, getting a little over his an- 
noyance— for he had felt at first both 
dismayed and angry — told him that af 
much breakfast was at their service as 
they liked to eat. Just as he had been 


THE SHADOW ON 

neuter in the matter hitherto, so he re- 
solved, after taking a minute’s inward 
counsel with himself, to remain. The 
marriage had certainly been no fault of 
his : none could be more surprised at it 
than he was ; and therefore no blame 
could attach to him. He did not see 
why he should either espouse their cause, 
or turn against them for it : and he de- 
termined to do neither. 

‘^It is your own concern entirely, 
Geolfry ; I shall not make it mine. I 
am sorry that you have taken this step 
— and there’s sure to be a row over it : 
but I don’t see that I am called upon to 
resent it. And so — here’s good luck to 
you both.” 

“ Thank you heartily,” replied Geoff- 
ry : while Maria sobbed in silence. 

But, do not think I approve of what 
you have done — don’t run away with that 
notion to tell your friends,” resumed Mp. 
Arde. “ What are your plans ? ” 

‘‘ Plans ? ” returned Geoifry. 

“ Ay. Where are you going to take 
Maria ? Up to the moon ? ” 

“Up to Malvern. I have engaged 
lodgings there for the present.” 

• “ Oh, I thought you might be going 
to take her to Beechhurst Dene,” cried 
Mr. Arde rather satirically. 

“ I must wait for that.” 

But before sitting down to breakfast, 
Maria escaped to her chamber, unseen by 
either of the servants ; there to remove 
the tell-tale attire and assume her ordin- 
ary dress. As to Geoffry, he breakfasted 
with his overcoat buttoned close up. 

Surprises that day seemed to be the 
lot of Mr. and Mrs. Arde. The morning 
was wearing t)n, getting near the time 
that Geoffry intended to take his bride 
away — driving her in his open gig to 
avert any suspicion that a close carriage 
might have endangered — when Squire 
Arde called. The same little, stooping 
old man that you have already seen ; in 
the same pepper-and-salt suit with the 
silver buckles at his knees and shoes ; 
and the same fluffy great-coat falling off 
his narrow shoulders. He had never 
honored them with a call yet: hence 
the surprise. Mrs. Arde blushed as she 
rose timidly to receive him. As to 
Maria, she fblt ready to sink : in the first 
confused moment, a wild fancy came 
over her that her father knew all about 
the morning’s work, and that Squire 
3 


THE HOLLOW. 49 

Arde had come from him, the herald of 
war. 

“ What, are you here ! ” cried he, 
staring at Geoffry. 

“ I came into Worcester this morn- 
ing, Squire,” was the assumingly-careless 
answer. 

“ Oh,” returned the Squire, glancing 
at Maria, as though he had some suspi- 
cion that she might be the attraction. 

“ When d’ye expect Sir Dene home from 
Lunuon ? ” 

“ In a week or two, I suppose ; it’s 
uncertain,” answered Geoffry. 

Squire Arde’s visit this morning was 
not dictated by any thought of friend- 
ship or courtesy : he had but come to 
inquire after the character of, a man 
who had been employed upon George 
Arde’s hop grounds. 

“I don’t know much of him, sir,” 
was George’s answer to the application. 
“ He is steady enough, I think. Jona- 
than Drew could tell you more about 
him thah I can.” 

“Ah, I daresay,” was the old man’s 
remark. “ But Drew might not speak 
the truth, you know.” 

“ Drew not speak the truth ! ” inter- 
posed Geoffry Clanwaring. “ He’d be 
sure to do that. Squire. Though surly 
in manner sometimes, he is truthful.” 

“When he finds it convenient to be 
so,” returned the Squire with compos- 
ure. “ He did not eak truth for Tom 
Barber’s widow.” 

“ How do you mean, sir ? ” 

“ In the matter of that lost paper. 
Drew knew it was given to her, well 
enough, though it suited him to. forget 
it.” 

“ If I thought Drew did know of it 
— asserting all the while that he did 
not ; that there had never been any 
such paper given — I would get my 
father to turn him away,” was the in- 
dignant remark of Geoffry. 

“ Let him be,” said the old man. 
“ The matter’s over, and done with, 
and Hester Barber’s gone. A curious 
thing, she should ha’ found the paper 
only an hour or two afore her death, 
warn’t it ? ” 

He looked at Geoffry with his once 
bright eye, cold as steel. In the glance 
there was a strange keenness. 

“Yes, it was curious,” fpssented 
Geoffry. “ Had the paper been uu- 


60 


DENE HOLLOW. 


earthed in time, I hope — and I think — 
my father would have respected it, and 
not interfered with the poor old woman ; 
although it was not binding on him. 

I should have done my best to beg for 
her. I did as it was.” 

‘‘Well, it’s too late by some months 
now,” said the Squire : “ the cottage is 
gone, and the fine new road’s there in- 
stead. It’s just one of those cases, 
young man, that might be compared to 
a broken egg. Once spilt on the floor, 
it can never be picked up again.” 

“That’s true,” said Geoffry, a great 
sadness in his good-natured blue eyes. 

“ Nobody was more sorry for poor Gran- 
ny Barber than I was. It was a hard 
case : I told my father so. But he did 
not see it in the same light.” 

Old Mr. Arde nodded, and then 
shook his head from side to side, as if 
in strong condemnation. 

“ Yovi think my father did wrong, I 
see, sir.” 

‘ “ Nay, I judge nobody, young man. 
But there’s some plain words in an old 
Book that have run through my head, 
off and on, since the day I saw ’em de- 
molishing her place. ‘ Remove not the 
old land-mark, and enter not into the 
field of the fatherless.’ Sir Dene don’t 
read his Bible, may be.” 

“ Oh but he does — sometimes,” said 
Geoffry. 

“Ah then he forgot ’em, may be. 
Anyway the old homestead’s gone, and 
Hester Barber’s gone ; and the cutting’s 
broad and smooth, and a fine name 
you’ve given to it — Dene Hollow.” 

“We did not give it : I don’t know 
who did give it, sir.” 

“ And it don’t matter who,” rejoined 
the Squire. 

At that moment a young servant 
maid came in with the baby. When 
she saw there was a stranger present, 
she would have retreated ; but Mrs. 
Arde took the child from her. A very 
pretty, lively little baby in a clean white 
frock, who sat up and looked with inde- 
pendence on the company. The child 
attracted Squire Arde’s attention, and 
he went up and patted its cheek. 

“ Boy, or girl, ma’am ? ” 

“ Girl, sir,” replied Mrs. Arde. 

“ Ho ho, pretty one j ho ho ! What, 
are ye laughing at the old man ? D’ye 
want to come to him ? ” 


For the baby had broken out into a 
smile, and was holding forth its little 
fat arms. To the surprise of all present, 
perhaps also of himself. Squire Arde put 
his riding whip on the table, and took 
the baby. 

“ What’s her name ? ” he asked, as 
he sat down, and the little fingers 
caught hold of his hanging bunch of 
seals. 

“ It’s Mary, sir.” 

“ Mary ! The same as my girl’s 
was,” muttered he, his voice dying 
away in a whisper. And he kissed the 
child fondly. 

“ Here, take it, ma’am ; I must be 
going,” said he, getting up. “ You 
don’t look very peart, my dear,” he 
added, in a kind, fatherly tone, as Mrs. 
Arde received the child, and he chuck- 
ed her under the chin. “ You should 
try and get your wife’s roses back, 
George Arde. Good day to ye all.” 

They watched him down the path in 
the rain, the little shrunken figure, rid- 
ing-whip in hand, George Arde attend- 
ing him to open the gate. 

His had been a sad history. In the 
bloom of his early manhood, when life 
looked fair before him, he had married 
a young lady to whom he was much 
attached. She gave birth to a child — 
a girl — and soon afterwards symptoms 
of insanity developed themselves. Ever 
since then until her death, which only 
occurred three years ago, she had been . 
the raving inmate of a lunatic asylum. 
The little girl lived to be ten years old : 
and her death nearly broke her father’s 
heart. Since then he had been 
strangely altered : the kindly feelings 
of his nature seemed to have withered 
up at the grave, and he became a soli- 
tary, penurious old man. Hurst Leet 
was wont to say that he was Arde by 
name, and Hard by nature. But this 
was mostly applied to his sociable quali- 
ties 5 for no one instance of oppression 
had ever been traced to him. 

“ How’s hops, George ? ” he asked, 
as he was going through the gate. 

“ Pretty brisk, sir. Nothing much to 
complain of.” 

“ I think I shall try that fellow. 
Good morning.” 

On the following afternoon, Geoffry 
Clanwaring, leaving his wife at Malvern, 


IN ST. PETER’S CHURCH. 


51 


went over to Harebell Earm, to break 
the news of what he had done. Noth- 
ing, as he believed, had transpired ; he 
took it for granted that the marriage 
was as yet a secret. Mr. Owen happen- 
ed to be in his barn when Geoffry rode 
in. Leaving his horse, Geoffry found 
him watching the threshing. Drawing 
the farmer outside, for the noise was 
deafening, Geoffry sat down on the shaft 
of a barrow, and told him what he had 
to tell. 

I know all about it, Mr. Clanwar- 
ing.” 

Know it ! ” repeated Geoffry start- 
ing up. But it might have struck him 
that the farmer listened very quietly, 
without any appearance of surprise. 
“ Why, how did you get to know it, 
sir ? ” 

“ From my daughter Mary. I took 
the pony-chaise into Worcester early 
this morning to fetch home Maria, her 
mother not being well. It could not be 
kept from me then.” 

A deprecating flush rose to the young 
man’s ingenuous face. He held out his 
hand timidly. 

“ You will not refuse to forgive me, 
sir ! And — to — bless us both ? ” 

My forgiveness will not be a mate- 
rial matter to you, Mr. Clanwaring,” 
was the reply — and Geoffry could but 
note with what strangely calm sadness 
he was speaking. “ Your father’s will 
be of more moment than mine : and 
that I fear you will never get. I can- 
not forgive Maria 

Oh but she was not to blame ; it 
was not her fault” ardently burst forth 
Geoffry. “ She only yielded to me after 
months of persua sion.” 

There lies ) jr fault — that she did 
yield,” spoke tbj farmer gravely. “ I 
had thought th *t I could place implicit 
trust in my daughters.” 

“ She will "oe your dutiful daughter 
still, Mr. 0\yen, and her mother’s too, 
although sh(»^ is my wife. I’ll bring her 
over to see /you next week.” 

Do y^a fancy you were justified in 
taking this extreme step, sir ? ” 

“Nq. entirely,” candidly avowed 
Geoff/y ; " but ^es in a very great de- 
gree/. The only one to whom I cannot 
pi lad justification is my own father. 
'^Lc'you and Mrs. Owen I may, and do, 
plead it. Had you not told me sir, that 


you liked me for myself; that you 
would, had circumstances been favor- 
able, have willingly given me Maria ? ” 

Robert Owen drew in his refined and 
beautiful lips. It was true, so far. 

But the circumstances were not 
favorable, Mr. Clanwaring. You know 
perfectly well that I alluded to your 
father. Onfy in the event of his being 
willing, should I have been.” 

“ You see I was obliged to marry her 
as I have done,” confessed Geoffry. 
“ Had I asked my father’s consent, he 
would have forbidden it altogether — and 
in the teeth of an absolute refusal I 
should not have liked to disobey him. 
As it is, nobody foi bid it ; and I have 
but taken my own way.” 

I should call that three parts soph- 
istry, sir.” 

“ And one part good wholesome hon- 
esty,” returned Geoffry, his earnest 
eyes full of sincere meaning. ‘‘ Believe 
me, Mr. Owen, it will all come right. 
Sir Dene will be angry at first ; little 
doubt of it ; but he’ll not retain anger 
long. I wrote to him last night, a good 
long letter, telling him all about it from 
the onset, and sent it off to-day. He’ll 
get it to-morrow morning.” 

And a fine way he’ll be in ! ” re- 
marked the farmer. His first act will 
be to give me notice of ejectment.” 

How can you think he would be so 
unjust ? ” retorted Geoffry. “ I have 
told him that you knew no more of it 
than he did, and would have been just 
as much against it. He’ll make com- 
mon cause with you in abusing me for 
a bit, I shouldn’t wonder. Tott will 
forgive me, Mr. Owen ? ” — and once 
more the pleading eyes went out with 
the offered hand. 

“ In one sense I forgive you, Mr. 
Clanwaring, — and that is, that I do not 
refuse my countenance to you now. 
The marriage cannot be undone ; there- 
fore it would serve no good end to re- 
sent it. It is not against me that you 
have sinned, but against your father 
and family.” 

“ Thank you,” said Geoffry heartily, 
as his hand was at length taken. 
“ And now, sir, I want you to hear me 
say that your daughter is very dear to 
me. By heaven’s help, I will do my 
best and utmost to promote her happi 
ness.” 


62 


DENE HOLLOW. 


Mr. Owen shook his head in sadness. 

You think so now ; I do not doubt it ; 
but in these unequal marriages the wife 
generally has to suffer from neglect in 
the long run.” 

“ Mine never shall,” emphatically 
spoke Geoffry, his whole face burning- 
red with resentment at the implied sug- 
gestion. “ If I know anything of my- 
self, Mr. Owen, of my nature, my prin- 
ciples, my lovef Maria will be as dear to 
me and as honored by me in the far-off 
years to come, as she is on this, the mor- 
row of my wedding-da3^” 

In the far-off years to come ! Could 
poor Geoffry — could ill-fated Eobert 
Owen — but have foreseen a shadow of 
the events that were destined to happen 
long before those far-off years should 
dawn ! Astrologers have assumed to 
see into the future : but it is not one of 
the least mercies of God that all such 
sight is hidden from our view. 


CHAPTEE VI. 

ENCOUNTERING THE STORM. 

Clattering up through the gates of 
Beechhurst Dene in a noisy post-chaise 
and pair late at night, went Sir Dene 
Clanwaring and his eldest son. The 
chaise had been chartered from Sir 
Dene’s hotel at Worcester, the Hoppole, 
after the London stage coach had depos- 
ited them in that city. Geoffry’s ‘‘ good 
long letter” was not received so soon 
by two or three days as it might have 
been, in consequence of Sir Dene’s tem- 
porary absence from London. It had 
now brought him down in a fury, and 
Mr. Clanwaring accompanied him to 
take part in the storm. He was a little, 
dark man, this eldest son and heir ; 
proud, honorable, haughtily self-con- 
scious of his degree and position. As 
little like his father and Geoffry in per- 
son as he could well be ; resembling, in 
fact, his dead mother. Bitterly wrath- 
ful, was he, against Geoffry for the (as 
he put it) degrading marriage : he said 
less than Sir Dene, but his anger was 
inwardly greater and would be more 
lasting. Mr. Clanwaring intended to 
mate with one of high degree, himself ; 
the youngest brother, in India, had mar- 
ried a title : how could they brook the 
disgrace on the family inflicted by 


Geoffry ? Mr. Clanwaring’s private 
opinion was that he deserved hanging. 
As a matter of course he must be dis- 
carded for ever ; blotted out of the Clan- 
waring archives. 

The housekeeper came forward in dis- 
may as the chaise stopped : she had re- 
ceived no intimation of Sir Dene’s re- 
turn, and had been about to retire for 
the night. He waved her off; said 
they did not want much supper ; any- 
thing would do ; but ordered a fire to 
be lighted instantly in his parlor, and 
Gander sent to him. 

Gander was in bed. A faithful serv- 
ing man some forty years old, who had 
spent the last half of them with his 
master in India, and was now butler. 
Gander had a frightful toothache — 
which he was always having — and had 
gone to bed at nine on the strength of 
it. He was a red-faced man with obsti- 
nate dark hair that never could be per- 
suaded by brush to lie on his head, but 
stood up in straight pieces like porcu- 
pines’ quills, as if he were in a chronic 
state of fright ! The popular phrase — 
his hair stood on end — might have been 
made for Gander. 

Now then. Gander,” began Sir 
Dene as soon as he appeared, what is 
the truth of this infamous business ? ” 

Gander knew what was meant, and 
wished himself miles away : he was 
nearly as simple as h-is name. The 
offender, Mr. Geoffry, was a great favor- 
ite of his. 

“ Can’t 3'ou speak ?’ ’ cried Sir Dene. 

^^Well, Sir Dene — . — I suppose you 
have heard of it,” stammered Gander, 
who was a native of Worcestershire. 

“ Is he really marrie 1 ?” 

“ Oh yes, sir, I belie e so.” 

“ And to one of /hose girls of . 
Owen ! ” 

“ Yes, sir, it’s she. ^The only one 
left of ’em. Squire Arie’s nephew 
married the other.” 

“Squire Arde’s nephew?” Gander 
had thrown in that in his good nature ; 
a reminder that his j’oung master was 
not the first gentleman by b>th who, 
had gone to Earmer Owen’s for a wife. 

“ Has he been here since ? ” thun- 
dered Sir Dene. 

“ Mr. Geoffry ? — no, sir. We hJ r 
he is staying at Malvern.” '■» I 

John the heir turned round : hi was 
holding his boots, first one then the 


ENCOUNTERING THE STORM. 


6S 


other, to the faggots in the grate, now 
blazing up. 

‘‘ Is it known yet in the neighbor- 
hood, Gander ? ” 

“ Lawk, Known, Mr. Clanwaring, sir ! 
Why, it’s the whole talk of the place 
— and has been since the day after 
the wedding, when Mr. Geoffry came 
over to beg forgiveness of Farmer 
Owen ! ” 

Forgiveness of him ! ” interjected 
Mr. Clanwaring with curling lips. 

Gander detected the passion. “ I 
beg your pardon, Mr. Clanwaring,” he 
resumed with deprecation. ‘^It’s said 
he did do it. Farmer Owen is as 
grieved about it as anybody else can be. 
He told Squire Arde that it was just a 
blow to him.” ^ 

“ Does he consider Mr. Geoffry Clan- 
waring beneath his daughter ? ” ques- 
tioned the heir in scornful mockfry. 

“It is because he is so nuu i; above 
her, sir, and because he knows it will 
put Mr. Geoffry wrong with Sir Dene — 
that’s why he feels it as a blow,” cried 
honest Gander. 

“ Cease this, John,” stormed the bar- 
onet, bringing down his hand on the 
table by w'hich he stood. “ What I 
want to know is, how he got acquainted 
with the girl. They would not be mar- 
ried off-hand without some acquaint- 
anceship. Somebody must have known 
that there w^ere meetings between 
them.” 

“ As to that, Geoffry was always out 
and about like a bailiff,” spoke Mr. 
Clanwaring, while Gander was wisely 
silent. 

“He had his work to do, John. 
Overlooking, and that.” 

“ Yes, sir. I imagine, though, that 
Harebell Farm was better looked after 
than all the rest of the land put to- 
gether.” 

“ Harebell Farm is not in my occupa- 
tion ; he had no business there at all,” 
growled Sir Dene. And his son gave a 
stamp to the burning wood with his 
right boot. 

“ The young lady has not been at 
home these five weeks past, Sir Dene — 
leastways, it’s said so,” added cautious 
Gander, not deeming it expedient to 
know too much. “ The tale runs that 
she has been staying at Worcester with 
her sister, Mrs. Arde.” 


A sudden flash of enlightenment, like 
an illumination, darted through Sir 
Dene’s brain. He turned on his heel. 

“Then that explains his visits to 
Worcester ! John, I thought he had 
gone Worcester-mad. He was always 
there.” 

“ And no one could open their lips to 
tell Beechhurst Dene of it ! said John 
bitterly. “ Did you know nothing of 
it. Gander ? ” 

“Not a word, Mr. Clanw^aring. Of 
course, sir, I know it was as Sir Dene 
says — that Mr. Geoflry was often going 
to Worcester; hut it never came into 
my head to wonder why he went.” 

Sir Dene was biting his hot lips. 
“ Let’s see — which day was it that he 
made this shameful marriage. Gan- 
der?” 

“’Twas last Thursday, sir — a week 
ago to-morrow. I wondered what busi- 
ness could be taking off Mr. Geoffry so 
soon in the morning : his gig W'as wait- 
ing at the door a’most afore it was 
light. He had a cup o’ coffee took to 
his room, and came down with his top- 
coat on. ‘ If I am not at home by nine 
o’clock to-night, don’t expect me, Gan- 
der,’ says he. Upon that I asked 
whether he had got the key of the cel- 
laret — for I had been looking for it, Sir 
Dene, and couldn’t find it. He unbut- 
toned his coat to feel in his pockets, and 
then I see he was dressed up.” 

“ Saw he was dressed up ! ” echoed 
Sir Dene. “ And ought not that to 
have given you a suspicion of what was 
agate ? ” 

“ Why no, sir ; how should it ? ” re- 
turned Gander. 

“ A man does not go out dressed up 
at dawn for nothing,” stormed the bar- 
onet. 

“ I thought it might be the mayor’s 
feast at Worcester, Sir Dene — if I 
thought anything : it’s held in Novem- 
ber. But, sir,” added the man with 
reason, “put it that I had suspected 
the truth — what end would it have 
served ? I could not have stopped Mr. 
Geoffry from getting married — or at- 
tempted to stop him. He is my master, 
sir.” 

“You are a fool. Gander,” growled 
Sir Dene. 

To what use the discussion ? Of 
what avail to dispute as to what might 


54 


DENE HOLLOW. 


have been ? It could not undo the fact 
of the marriage, or part Geoffry Clan- 
waring from the young girl he had 
made his wife. 

On the following day, Thursday, 
Geoffry drove his wife over from Mal- 
vern to Harebell Farm. And there, 
happening to meet one of his father’s 
servants, he learnt the fact that Sir 
Dene had’come thundering home in a 
storm of passion. Leaving Maria with 
her mother, he went at once to Beech- 
hurst Dene. 

There was a distressing and turbulent 
scene. Geoffry found more enemies 
than he had bargained for. Not only 
were his father and brother there : but 
his mother’s sister. Miss Clewer, a pre- 
cise maiden lady of more than middle 
age, had also arrived. The news of her 
favorite nephew’s escapade had reached 
her at her home in Gloucestershire, and 
she posted over in a chaise and four in 
dire consternation. 

Going in by the back way, Geoffry 
met Gander in the passage. • The but- 
ler started back when he saw who it 
was ; and took the opportunity to whis- 
per a word of warning. 

They be all in the library, Mr. 
Geoffry,” he said, “ making a frightful 
outcry against you. The master, and 
Mr. Clan waring, and Miss Ann Clewer — 
she's come over, sir. I’ve just carried 
in a pitcher o’ water to keep her out of 
a fit of the ’sterics.” 

“ Great cry and little W’ool, Gander,” 
said Geoffry, with light good humor. 
But nevertheless he shrank from the 
task before him. He would not so 
much have minded Sir Dene alone ; but 
there was the wrath of his haughty 
brother in addition to be encountered ; 
not to speak of his aunt’s hysterics. 

The room called the library was a 
charming one. Not large, with a bay 
window opening on the side of the 
house opposite to that of the Harebell 
Lane entrance. It looked on the green 
park ; on its beautiful old trees scattered 
here and there ; on the herd of tame 
deer. It had been the favorite sitting- 
room of the late Lady Clanwaring, and 
was lightly and tastily furnished, the 
carpet bright with roses> the chairs and 
curtains of pale green brocade. 

Geoffry opened the door quietly, and 
they did not see him. Sir Dene was 


pacing the floor in a fume ; John Clan- 
waring stood with his face to the win- 
dow ; Miss Clewer (a very thin lady 
with a flaxen “ front ”) sat on a sof^ 
her bonnet and shawl on, just as she had 
got out of the post-chaise j her eyes 
dropping tears. 

“Sir Dene 1 Father!” 

They saw him then ; and a fine com- 
motion set in. What Gander had called 
a frightful outcry became more fright- 
ful. Sir Dene raved, Ann Clewer sob- 
bed ; John Clanwaring stared contemp- 
tuously in his brother’s face, his thin lips 
compressed, his arms folded. Geoffry 
stood his ground before them, hoping 
for a hearing; upright, noble, his fair 
Saxon face quite remarkable in its 
beauty. He strove to make the best 
defence he could : but it was not a mo- 
ment calculated to enhance an offender’s 
courage. Sir Dene interrupted him at 
every second word, utterly refusing to 
listen. 

“ Aunt Ann, will you hear me — will 
you let me tell you how sweet and gen- 
tle she is ? ” pleaded Geoffry. “ She is 
as much a lady in mind, manners, and 
appearance as ever my dear mother 
was.” 

“ Oh ! ” cried Miss Clewer with a 
shriek and a sob. “ To bring your 
mother’s name in with hers ! The 
world must be coming to an end, I 
think. If my dear Lady Clanwaring 
could come out of her grave, she’d die 
again with the shame.” 

It was of no use. Not a word of 
reason could any one of them be brought 
to hear. Abuse drowned Geoffry’s 
voice. Sir Dene ranted out hot things ; 
Mr. Clanwaring quieter ones, that stung 
ten-fold deeper with their scorn ; Miss 
Clewer sobbed and choked and shrieked. 
Geoffry managed to put his hand into 
his father’s, as he whispered forth a plea 
to be forgiven. 

Forgiven 1 Sir Dene flung away the 
hand with a passionate force that sent 
Geoffry staggering: and ordered him 
out of the house. 

Go,” he thundered, his arm stretched 
out to indicate the door. “ Get your 
living in the best way you can. I cast 
you off from this hour.” 

And Geoffry went. Finding that the 
longer he stayed the worse it got, he 
went. At the angle of the passage stood 


ENCOUNTERING THE STORM. 55 


Gander, with a face as red as a turkey’s 
comb. 

It has been a’most as bad as bull- 
baiting, hasn’t it, Mr. Geoffry ? ” be 
whispered. 

There has been as much noise. Gan- 
der.” 

Aye. But look here, sir — don’t you 
be downhearted. Sir Dene’s temper’s 
up — and nobody knows better than me 
^the lot of swearing it takes to cool it 
aown again. One has to swear, living 
in India. Just let Mr. Clan waring get 
away from the place — he is the hottest 
against you, sir, and it edges on Sir 
Dene. When he’s safe off and the house 
is clear, you come again, Mr. Geoffry, 
and try then. I can tell you one thing, 
sir — your father likes you better than 
he does Aim.” 

Geoffry nodded. He knew all this 
just as well as Gander. While he was 
giving directions for his clothes to be 
sent to him, the library door opened, and 
Mr. Clanwaring came out. 

“ You will shake hands with me be- 
fore I go, won’t you, John ? ” he asked, 
when he had finished what he had to 
say to Gander — and the tone was a 
somewhat piteous one. 

But Mr. John Clanwaring rejected 
the held-out hand quite as unmistak- 
ably though less demonstratively than 
Sir Dene had done : and passed on, leav- 
ing a few cold and cutting words behind 
him. 

So Geoffry went out of his father’s 
home, by the nearest and least ceremoni- 
ous way. As he crossed Harebell Lane, 
he saw Robert Owen leaning on his 
gate. 

“Well, how have you sped?” were 
the words that greeted him. 

“ Badly to-day,” was the young man’s 
candid answer. “ It was to be expected 
I should, this first time. Things will 
come all right later, Mr. Owen — at least 
with my father. I am sure of it.” 

“ Is Sir Dene very much incensed ? ” 
• questioned Mr. Owen. 

“ Yes. Old Aunt Ann has come 
posting over — to make matters worse : 
and my brother is at home, which is 
worse still. Between them all, I had 
not fair play. No play at all, in fact. 
It will be different — when I can get to 
see my father alone.” 

“ And meanwhile, what are you to 


do for ways and means, ^Ir. Clanwar- 
ing? ” 

Geoffry smiled. “ That need not con- 
cern me yet, sir ; I am not reduced to 
my last ten-pound note. Never having 
had ill outlets for my money, as some 
young fellows have, I saved it.” 

Robert Owen shook his head. “ The 
time may come when you will rue the 
day of your foolish marriage with Maria.” 

“It never will,” said Geoffry with 
emphasis. “ She is a great deal to® 
precious to meffor that to come to pass.’^ 

Mr. Owen ^jjhed. Others had thought 
the same, and lived to find themselves 
bitterly mistaken. They were leaning 
with their arms on the gate while they 
talked. 

“Did Sir Dene say anything about 
me, Mr. Clanwaring ? ” 

“ Not a word. Who’s that ? ” 

Geoffry Clanwaring’s “ Who’s that ” 
applied to a man who was passing down 
the lane. An ill-looking fellow with a 
slouching gait, and slouching hat. 

“ I don’t know who it is,” was Robert 
Owen’s answer when the man was 
beyond hearing, “ but I suspect it is one 
of Mr. Randy Black’s choice customers. 
Had this business of yours, sir, not come 
between me and Sir Dene, I might have 
found it my duty to give him a hint as 
to what I think of the trailing Indian.” 

“ Give it to me,” said Geoffry. 

“ I have nothing very tangible to say. 
Only that I feel sure evil doings of some 
kind are carried on in the house. I am 
out a good deal late in an evening with 
my stock, and hardly a night passes by 
but I see ill-looking men slinking up this 
lane on their way to the place. Some- 
times they have bundles with them.” 

Bundles ! ” cried Geoffry. 

“ Bundles that they try to hide. I’d 
not like to make an affidavit that they 
don’t contain stolen goods.” 

“ No ! ” uttered Geoffry in surprise. 
“ Stolen goods ! You mean smuggled 
goods don’t you ?” 

“ I mean what I say, Mr. Clanwaring. 
I have had my strong suspicions for 
some time now, that the Trailing Indian 
is a receiving place for them.” 

“ Oh but, you know my father would 
never allow anything of that kind on 
his estate,” returned Geoffry, uncon- 
sciously drawing himself up with a 
touch of the haughty nride of the Clan- 


66 


DENE HOLLOW. 


waring family. ‘‘ He would shut up the 
Trailing Indian to-morrow, and send 
Black to the right about.” 

“He would have to prove it first,” 
dissented Bobert Owen. “Black holds 
his lease, and cannot he turned out 
lightly. Put it down at smuggling only : 
it’s not very reputable to have such a 
man for one’s next-door neighbor.” 

“ Black must be uncommonly bold if 
it is anything beyond smuggling. Do 
you think he’d venture on it ? ” 

“ There never was a ^afer place for it 
than the Trailing Indian hks been,” 
observed Mr. Owen. “ Moses Black 
occupied this farm, and of course was in 
his brother’s interests ; Mr. Honeythorn 
kept but three or four servants at the 
Dene in his old age — and they mostly 
women. Why, a gang of smugglers, or 
what not, might have gone up this lane 
nightly, and not been met or seen once 
in a twelvemonth ! And you know how 
lonely the field way is across to Worces- 
ter ! ” 

Geofiry Clan waring took out his watch. 
“ What time do you dine, Mr. Owen ? ” 
“I expect dinner’s ready now, sir.” 

“ Then I’ll go up to the Trailing In- 
dian after dinner, before we start for 
home. Mr. Bandy Black must get a 
hint from me, to mind his manners.” 

“ I should have given him a hint my- 
self long ago, only that I possess no 
right to interfere,” said Bobert Owen. 
“ You may tell him so if you like, Mr. 
Clan waring.” 

When dinner was over (served in the 
best room, and in the best style that 
Harebell Farm could venture on — which 
was but a homely, comfortable style at the 
best— for this was the first time it had 
had the honor of entertaining Sir Dene’s 
son) Geofiry started for the Trailing 
Indian. He took the short cut over 
the fields — not much above five minutes’ 
walk that way — and leaped the little 
stile at the end of the Farm’s grounds, 
which brought him out opposite the inn. 
Black was standing at his door, and 
watched the exit. He touched his hat 
to his landlord’s son. 

“ I want to speak to you Black. Will 
you walk about with me in the lane for 
a minute or two ? ” 

“ Won’t you come in, sir? ” 

“No, I’ve not the time.” 

Pacing the lane before the house, be- 


yond chance of eaves-droppers, Geofiry 
Clan waring gave the hint that he had 
come to give. He did not accuse Black 
outright of unorthodox doings : .only said 
that doubts had been aroused whether 
all things enacted at the Trailing Indian 
would bear the light of day. And he 
emphatically recommended Black to 
amend his ways, if they required amend- 
ing — or he would hear more of it from 
Sir Dene. 

“ Bobert Owen has been putting you 
up to say this ! ” was Black’s first com- 
ment, spoken with suppressed fierceness. 

“ No one has put me to say it — I came 
of my own accord. Though I may tell 
you, Black, that Mr. Owen has just the 
same opinion of the Trailing Indian that 
I have. He sees queer people stealing 
up here often enough at night.” 

A change passed over Black’s evil face. 
It settled into a sneer. 

“ Owen has taken a spite against me, 
Mr. Geoffry Clanwaring. I’ve knowed 
it long. My belief is, he wants to get 
me out of the Trailing Indian that he 
may have the place himself ; that’s why 
he invents these lies.” 

“ Don’t be absurd, man,” rebuked 
Geofiry. 

Black said he was not absurd. He 
denied all insinuations out and out, giv- 
ing the Trailing Indian the very whitest 
of characters; It was as honest as 
Harebell Farm, he said, .and honester. 

“ That’s enough. Black — I don’t want 
to go further into it,” concluded Geofiry. 
“ My warning is a friendly one. If 
needed, you will do wisely to act upon 
it ; if unneeded — why, there’s no harm 
done.” 

“ It’s a shame that people should try 
to take away my character behind my 
back ! ” exclaimed the landlord in a 
deeply-injured tone. “There’s not a 
ounce o’ bacca or a gill o’ brandy comes 
into the Trailing Indian, but wdiat has 
been through his Majesty’s customs.” 

“ As to smuggling, the popular belief 
is that the whole country smuggles when 
it gets the chance, from a duchess down- 
wards,” carelessly remarked Geofiry. 
“But,” he added, dropping his voice, “ to 
harbor stolen goods, or those who deal 
in them, is a very difierent thing. Black. 
Don’t let the Trailing Indian be suspect- 
ed of that. Good afternoon.” 

He vaulted over the stile at a run. 


JONATHAN DREW’S MIDNIGHT RIDE. 


57 


leaving Black looking as dark as his 
name. Geach came sauntering forth 
from the inn door, behind which he had 
been peeping all the while. 

What’s up, Randy ? You look fit 
to eat your grandmother.” 

** If this is not the work of that con- 
founded rat, call me false for ever ! ” 
cried Black, stamping with passion. 

What work ? What rat ? ” natur- 
ally asked Geach. 

“ Robert Owen.” 


CHAPTER YII. 

JONATHAN DREW’s MIDNIGHT RIDE. 

A FROSTY night in December. The 
roads were hard ; the moon, bright as 
silver, was riding aloft in the sky. Mr. 
Jonathan Drew, Sir Dene’s bailiff, who 
had been a day’s journey on horseback, 
and was returning home across country 
weary and tired, turned off the turnpike 
road into Harebell Lane at its upper 
end ; as if he were a traveller going to 
demand hospitality at the Trailing In- 
dian. 

He w^s well buttoned up from the 
cold ; and had tied a handkerchief over 
his ears, which was surmounted by his 
high-crowned hat. The horse, weary as 
his master, sought the soft grass by the 
side of the lane, rather than the harder 
middle, on which some stones had recent- 
ly been laid. Drew was feeling very cross. 
He had told his niece, who kept his 
house and did for him, to have his sup- 
per ready by nine o’clock ; but his busi- 
ness had detained him longer than he 
had anticipated, and it was now past 
midnight. A very late hour that, for a 
rural district : no travellers were sup- 
posed to be abroad at so unearthly a 
time. 

The vague reports, none of them 
too good, connected with the Trailing 
Indian, caused Jonathan Drew to turn 
his eyes on that hostelrie, as he was 
passing it. It lay on the opposite side 
of the lane to the one he was riding on. 
Closely shut up, it looked to be : the 
moon played on the casements, behind 
which the curtains were drawn ; its in- 
mates no doubt being abed and asleep. 

‘‘As I ought to be,” growled Mr. 
Drew. Get on, Dobbin. What ails 
ye ? — ye bain’t at home yet.” 


Eor the horse, finding his tired hoofs 
on the soft grass, had begun to take it 
easily, slackening his pace to a walk. 
Drew was about to urge him on with a 
spur, when a bright light, as if from a 
door suddenly opened at the side of the 
house, fell on the inn yard. Drew let 
Dobbin’s nose seek the ground then, and 
sat still. He had halted close to the stile 
that led into Mr. Owen’s grounds — the 
same stile that Geoffry Clanwaring had 
leaped over when he went to speak that 
word of warning to the landlord of the 
Trailing Indian. The branches of the 
trees, thick there, were bare enough at 
this season, but the holly hedge was 
high ; it encompassed man and horse 
within its shade, and he could look 
across at leisure into Mr. Black’s yard, 
on which the moonbeams shone freely. 

J ust for a short while. Drew, in spite 
of the moon’s light and the other light, 
was slow in making out what there was 
to see. His sight was excellent still, 
except for close print ; it was not that ; 
but there seemed to be some large, dark 
object, of indistinct form, drawn right 
across the yard. And when at length 
he slowly made out that, and other 
things, Jonathan Drew’s head seemed to 
turn the wrong way upwards, and his 
life blood to curdle within him. 

It was a hearse. A black hearse with 
four plumes at its corners. The end of 
it was drawn up to the side door, whence 
the light issued ; and there seemed to be 
some figures moving. Four or five men : 
and they were bringing something out of 
the house ; something that the Bailiff at 
length made out to be a coffin. 

“ Who can have died there ? ” softly 
ejaculated Drew in his bewilderment. 
“ When I was at the place yesterdify, I 
see Black, and the ostler, and — no, I 
didn’t see her,’’ 

It flashed into his mind with the last 
words, that Black’s wife had been very 
ill recently ; Mr. Priar had been attend- 
ing on her. Low fever, or something of 
that. 

“ It must be her that’s in the coffin. 
Why didn’t Black say yesterday she was 
dead? — And what on earth are they 
burying her for at this witching hour ? ” 

But, as reason gradually replaced the 
first confused surprise. Drew remembered 
that they could not be taking out Mrs. 
Black at this hour to be buried, unless 
they were going to do it without “ bell, 


68 


DENE HOLLOW. 


book, and candle ; ” ay, and without 
priest also. Recalling Black’s character, 
recalling the fact that he was popularly 
supposed not to stick at any dark deed, 
Jonathan Drew felt some ugly doubts 
creep over him : and he asked himself 
why they should be carrying away Mrs. 
Black’s body in this surreptitious man- 
ner, unless it was to conceal her death. 
And, if Black did want to conceal it — 
what was the reason ? 

A sudden loud neigh from one of the 
two black horses harnessed to the hearse, 
caused Drew to start, and Dobbin to 
turn his head. Close upon that, the 
door of the vehicle was shut on what 
bad been placed within it, and it began 
at once to make its way out of the yard. 

Still as a statue, sat Drew : hoping, 
nay, almost praying, that no piercing 
eye might discover him watching there. 
If — as he firmly believed — some ill deed 
was being enacted, it might not be safe 
for these desperate men to discover him. 
In the fear lest they should, he almost 
resolved to ride across boldly, ask 
whether Mrs. Black had died, ofier his 
condolences in an unsuspicious manner ; 
and then ride off at a gallop. But pru- 
dence told him it might be best to re- 
main still. Concealed under the thick 
holly hedge, the chances were that he 
would not be seen. 

'On, the hearse came, slowly and 
quietly. One man sat beside the driver ; 
both of them wearing black cloaks and 
hatbands. Turning out of the yard to 
the left, it thus traversed the short dis- 
tance to the end of the lane : there it 
set off quickly along the high road, just 
in the direction Mr. Drew had come. 
A high road that led, as may be said, 
all over the world, London included. 

Drew, watching in utter stillness, 
heaved a sigh of relief. They had not 
seen him. Somebody — the ostler he 
thought, by the gait — came and shut 
the gate of the yard: after that, the 
side door was shut, and all was quiet. 
For any signs that remained of what 
had passed, a spectator might have 
thought it a dream. 

Drew walked his horse quietly on the 
grass until he came to the corner of the 
lane, near Harebell Pond ; and then he 
rode away as if the deuce had been be- 
hind him. He could not get Black’s 
wife and that cofiin out of his mind. 


Drew was neither a timorous nor a 
superstitious man ; but the solitary lane 
struck him as being unpleasantly soli- 
tary to-night, and he was glad to get out 
of it. 

Be you very sure that he would take 
the near way home : the fine new road. 
Dene Hollow. If ever Drew had felt 
special cause to congratulate himself on 
Sir Dene’s having made that road, he 
did now. Turning off by the front gates 
of Beechhurst Dene, he gained it. A 
fine, smooth, beautiful road, lying white 
and cold in the moonlight. So bright 
was it, that the ghastly branches of the 
bare trees cast their shadows on it in 
places here and there as clearly as they 
did in the sunshine of day. 

“Now I hope that wench, Pris, has 
kept my supper warm,” muttered Drew, 
as his sure-footed horse began to descend. 
“ She’s a regular swaney, though, in 
some things. Shouldn’t wonder but 
she ” 

A start, a bound, a spring : and Jona- 
than Drew was thrown violently to the 
ground. The horse had started, as if 
in some great terror : had leaped from 
one side of the road to the other, across 
the foot-path, against the bank. It was 
like one who flies from some mortal 
enemy. Very nearly, if not quite in 
the same spot, it was, where the accident 
had occurred to Sir Dene Clanwaring; 
and the sudden spring. of the horse had 
been like the spring made by Sir Dene’s 
horses. 

How long Jonathan Drew might have 
lain there undiscovered, but for one 
fortunate circumstance, it was impossible 
to say : most probably until broad day- 
light. Mr. Priar came down the road, 
and found him. He, the surgeon, was 
returning home from a late visit to 
Harebell Farm. George Arde, his wife, 
and the baby had come there to spend a 
week or two and stay over Christmas ; 
the child had been taken with convul- 
sions in the afternoon : and Mr. Priar 
had considered it in so much danger 
that he went up again the last thing 
before bed-time, and remained till past 
midnight. 

Drew lay insensible. The spurs on 
his boots and the riding whip at his 
side disclosed to the doctor the fact that 
he must have been thrown from his 
horse. He tried to rouse him, but could 


JONATHAN DREW’S MIDNIGHT RIDE. 


59 


not ; and feared there might be concus- 
sion of the brain. Getting assistance 
from the mill lower down — a rather 
difficult matter of accomplishment at 
that hour of the night — Drew was con- 
veyed to his home. 

It was not brain concussion ; at least, 
to any serious extent; for Drew re- 
covered his senses by the time he was at 
home, and his intellect seemed unin- 
jured. What Mr. Priar began to fear 
now was concussion of the spine. Drew 
seemed powerless to move or stand ; but 
he said he was not hurt, and talked 
away. Priscilla, his niece, said Dobbin 
had come galloping home with his coat 
in a sweat, all in a mortal fright. 

“ I can’t think what ailed the brute,” 
observed Drew to the doctor when they 
were alone. He never served me such 
a trick afore.” 

“Dobbin was always so steady and 
sure-footed,” rejoined Mr. Priar. 

“ He’s sure-footed enough ; twarn’t 
that,” said Drew fractiously. “ The 
fool took fright.” 

“What at?” 

“ Why at nothing^^ returned Drew. 
“ Nothing that I could see. He wants 
a good hiding. And he’ll get it to- 
morrow.” 

Mr. Priar privately thought Dobbin’s 
master would not be so soon abroad to 
give him one. He let it pass, however. 

“ If the horse started, it must have 
been at something. Drew,” observed the 
surgeon. “ Perhaps a hare scudded 
across his path.” 

“ There warn’t no hare and there 
warn’t no rabbit,” retorted Drew ; 
whose temper was certainly not im- 
proved by his mishap. “I tell ye, 
doctor, there warn’t nothing. All 
around was just as still as still could 
be ; and the road was as bright as day.” 

Mr. Priar did not contradict again. 
He finished his examination of Drew, 
found that no bones were broken, and 
was imparting that cheering news, when 
the patient ungratefully interrupted 
him. 

“ Bother bones ! As if mine was 
young and brittle, that they should snap 
at a shoot off a horse. I say. Dr. Priar, 
what was the matter with Black’s wife, 
up at the Trailing Indian ? ” 

“ She has had low fever.” 

“ When did she die ? ” 


“ Die ! ” repeated the doctor in sur- 
prise. “ Mrs. Black 'a not dead. She 
is better.” 

“ Is she though,” complacently re- 
turned Drew, as if it afforded him pleas- 
ure to contradict for contradiction’s 
sake — as in fact it did. “When did 
you see her last, sir ? ” 

“Two or three days ago,” was the 
answer. “ She is tolerably well now, 
and I took my leave of her.” 

“Well then, I can tell you, doctor, 
that she is dead.^^ 

Looking up into Mr. Priar’s face 
from the bed on which he was . lying. 
Drew related what he had seen that 
night. It sounded so strangely mysteri- 
ous altogether, that Mr. Priar at first 
thought his patient must be wandering. 
But Drew repeated the story minutely, 
and the notion passed away. 

“ Surely it cannot be Mrs. Black who 
has died ? ” exclaimed the doctor, feel- 
ing, himself, a disagreeable thrill. 

“ It can’t be nobody else,” disputed 
Drew. “ When I was up there yester- 
day, they’d got no strangers in the 
house at all : Black was a grumbling 
that not a soul had put up there for a 
week or two.” 

“ No,” said Mr. Priar mechanically, 
his thoughts very deep just then ; “ the 
house has been empty of guests lately.” 

“ Well, then — you can add up, can’t 
you ? Black was there, and the ostler 
was there ; I saw ’em both : Mrs. Black 
I didn’t see nor hear. Now, Mr. Priar, 
what I’d like to ask is this — whether 
there was anything wrong about the 
woman’s death ? Else why should 
Black conceal it, and smuggle her out 
of the place at midnight ? ” 

“ I don’t like the look of jt,” said Mr. 
Priar, after a pause. “ The woman was 
in no danger of death when I took my 
leave of her. Even if she had had a 
relapse — which I don’t think was at all 
likely to happen — it could not have 
killed her so soon as this.” 

“ I think it ought to be looked into,” 
said Drew. “Black has the credit of 
being capable of acts as black as his 
name. There was that talk of the 
travelling pedlar, you know — seen to go 
into the inn, but never seen to come out 
on’t again — that has never been cleared 
up.” 

“ I shall look into this,” replied Mr. 


60 


DENE HOLLOW. 


Priar with decision. “ If the woman is 
dead, Black must render an account of 
how she died. I’ll go up there in the 
morning.” 

Drew laid his hand on Mr. Priar’s 
arm. Doctor, don’t you bring in my 
name to Black ; don’t say ’twas me that 
watched ’em,” he urged, some instinct 
prompting him to ask it. “Bandy 
Black shan’t be coming here to abuse 
me while I be helpless : he’d have it all 
his own way. Let me get about again, 
and I’ll soon tell him what I saw — and 
ask the reason on’t.” 

Mr. Priar nodded an unhesitating 
acquiescence to the request. Not only 
to oblige Drew, but also in the sanitary 
interests of that gentleman. He 
strongly suspected that poor Drew would 
soon be in a condition to render “ abuse ” 
from Black, or any one else, danger- 
ously exciteable. The doctor was just 
as unpleasantly impressed with this 
strange account of the midnight doings 
at the Trailing Indian as Drew had 
been. 

In the course of the following morn- 
ing Mr. Priar went up to the inn. He 
saw his patients first ; including Drew 
and Mrs. Arde’s baby. Drew appeared 
to be in just the same state, there was 
no material alteration ; the child was 
very much better. Indeed it seemed 
well — after the elastic habits of babies. 
Prom Harebell Farm, the doctor went 
straight to the Trailing Indian, taking 
the near cut through the fields. As he 
crossed the stile between the high holly 
hedge, he thought of what Drew had 
said — that it was close by that spot 
where he and Dobbin had halted the 
previous night. When Black, peeping 
forth from within his stable door, saw 
the doctor cross it, he knew that he had 
come from Harebell Farm. The fact 
that he had been summoned the pre- 
vious day to George Arde’s little child 
was no news at the inn. 

The Trailing Indian presented its 
customary still and silent features. No- 
body was about that the doctor could 
see. He went over, his mind full of 
the dead woman. Stepping in at the 
front door — which would make a show 
of keeping itself open for a few hours 
in the day-time — Mr. Priar passed on to 
the kitchen : and the first object his 
eyes alighted on was Black’s wife, with 


a bucket in her hand. No wonder, con- 
sidering what his thoughts had been 
running on, that the sudden apparition 
startled him more than if he had seen 
her dead. 

“ Bless my heart ! ” he exclaimed, in 
the fulness of his astonishment. “ Why, 
Mrs. Black, I — I — had reason to fear 
that something had happened to you.” 

“ I’m getting a good deal better and 
stronger, thank you, sir,” she said, 
lodging the bucket of water on the edge 
of a small tub. “What did you fear 
had happened to me, sir ? ” 

“ Why I thought that j^ou — had died, 
in fact ; or something of the sort. Who 
is it that has died here ? ” 

“ That has died here ! ” gasped Mrs. 
Black, suddenly struck into timidity — 
but her manner was timid at the bravest 
of times. “ Nobody has died here, sir.” 

“ Oh yes they have,” said the doctor, 
thinking it best to speak out, now he 
was in for it. “ And was taken away in 
a cofiSn and hearse last night at mid- 
night.” 

Mrs. Black’s answer to this — if an- 
swer it might be called — was to let fall 
the water and bucket into the tub, and 
to sink, herself, down on the nearest 
chair. The doctor had rarely in his 
life seen a picture of fear, such as this. 
She shook from head to foot ; her face 
and lips turned ghastly, sad to look 
upon. Mr. Priar began to feel sorry to 
have entered on the subject with her : 
but in truth it had escaped him in his 
utter astonishment. 

What’s all this row ? ” 

The interruption came from Black ; 
who — to judge by his badly-suppressed 
savage aspect and white looks, nearly as 
white as his wife’s — must have heard. 
The woman started from her chair and 
escaped, leaving him to deal with it. 

Through thick and thin Black swore 
that nothing of the kind, as described 
by Mr. Priar, had taken place. That 
the only foundation for it lay in this : 
About ten o’clock the previous night, 
just as he and his wife were going up 
to bed, a hearse drove into the yard : 
the two men accompanying it wanted to 
bait their horses and to take some refresh- 
ments themselves. At twelve o’clock, 
both men and horses being refreshed, 
they drove away again. Black was 
ready to take his oath to this before any 


JONATHAN DREW’S MIDi^IGHT RIDE. 


61 


justice of the peace ; as being all he 
knew about the matter. He had asked 
the men, he said, who it was they had 
got, and they answered that it was a 
lady who had died away from her home 
and was being taken to it across the 
country for burial. 

Now perhaps Mr. Priar might have 
believed this ; might have concluded 
that Jonathan Drew’s eyesight had not 
seen as much as it had fancied, but for 
the consciousness and terror displayed 
by Mrs. Black. What the mystery was, 
what the crime, he did not attempt to 
guess at : but it must be something. 

“ Do you mean to say, Black, that the 
coffin was not taken out of your house 
at this very side-door, opposite to me as 
I sit, and put into the hearse ? ’’ 

‘‘ That it never was,” foamed Black. 

Look here. Black. I don’t pretend 
to fathom the mystery of this. My in- 
formation is correct, I believe : the per- 
son who witnessed this has good eye- 
sight. He saw the side-door open, he 
saw the coffin brought out of it by three 
or four men at least, and put into the 
hearse. It was as light as day. You 
say the coffin was not taken out of the 
hearse at all, or I could have understood 
that it was merely being put back 
again.” 

Black’s positive oath, taken in his 
first heat — that the ^?offin had never 
been removed from the hearse — began 
to burn his lips. He thought what a 
fool he had been. 

“ They didn’t take it out that I saw,” 
he growled. “ Why should they ? 
Where was the man standing — that you 
say watched all this mummery ? ” 

‘‘ Over the way ; by the stile.” 

Black threw back his head as if he 
had expected the answer. “ Who was 
it, Mr. Priar ? ” 

I am not at liberty to tell you. It 
is of no consequence who it was.” 

Black laughed an evil laugh. He 
thought he knew better than Mr. Priar 
could tell him. Who was likely to be 
about at that time of night, and at that 
spot, the stile, but Robert Owen ? 
With Lis own eyes, he had seen Owen 
leaning over it at night, as if watching 
his house, more times than one. 

He is a cursed sneak, whoever it 
was, to come out to spy at a neighbor’s 
castle in the dark, Mr. Priar.” 


“ He did nof come out to do anything 
of the kind. What he saw he saw acci- 
dentally.” 

“ Saw accidentally ! ” retorted Black, 
curling his lip in scornful disbelief. 

I assure you. Black, it was so. Ho 
happened to be passing. But that has 
nothing to do with the point in question. 
I must tell you candidly I think there 
is more in this matter than you would 
like me to believe.” 

‘‘Any way, that’s all I know about 
it,” was Black’s stolid answer. “ If 
your friend wants better information, 
Mr. Priar, he must go after the hearse, 
and seek it out for himself. Where was 
it now the men said they were bound 
to ? — Somersetshire, I think. Here, 
Joe ; come in,” he called out, as the 
ostler passed the side-door. 

“ Tell the doctor all about that there 
hearse that was at the inn last night,” 
continued Black. “ He has come up 
with a confounded story that the Trail- 
ing Indian sent away a coffin in it.” 

Joe, a short, powerfully-built man, 
with ragged flaxen hair and a swinging 
gait, as if he might sometime have been 
a sailor, looked stolidly from one to the 
other. 

“ I dun’ know nothing o’ the hearse, 
save that it stopped here to bait,” said he. 

“ What time did it come ? — and what 
time did it go away ? — and who was 
with it ? — why don’t you speak ? ” cried 
his master, stamping his foot impatiently. 

“ It come in about ten — as near as I 
can tell ; and it stopped a good two 
hours. The horses had a feed o’ corn ; 
and the two men had some’at to eat and 
drink in here ; I dun’ know what ; the 
missus do ; she served ’em. They’d got 
a lady in the hearse, the driver telled me, 
and was a carrying of her to her own 
family’s place for bur’al.” 

Either they were telling the truth, or 
else had conned their tale by heart. 
Which of the two it was, Mr. Priar 
could not quite decide, in spite of his 
suspicions. But, as Mrs. Black had as- 
suredly not been carried away in the 
hearse, and it might have been simply 
as Black stated, the doctor did not con- 
sider that he was called upon to investi- 
gate the matter further. Intimating as 
much to Black, who did not appear to 
receive it with any gratitude, he took 
his departure. 


62 


DENE HOLLOW. 


What did all that there mean ? — 
and why was I called upon to speak ? ” 
demanded the ostler then, of his master. 

“Well, we got watched last night, 
Joe ; that’s all. The load was seen to 
come out o’ here and watched into the 
hearse.” 

Joe said a word that he might have 
been fined for. And another ; and 
another. 

“ Watched! Who by, master?” 

Randy Black extended his hand and 
pointed in the direction of Harebell 
Farm. And Mr. Joe broke out into 
several ugly words in succession, joining 
them with the name of Robert Owen. 

Could Mr. Priar but have known the 
ill he unconsciously worked that day to 
the innocent master of Harebell Farm ! 

One of the first visitors to Mr. Jona- 
than Drew’s bedside, was Mary Barber. 
Going down to Hurst Leet for some 
yeast the morning after the accident, 
she heard the news : 'Drew had been 
thrown from his horse in the night, and 
was supposed to be seriously injured. 
“ I’ll call in and see him,” thought she. 
“ He served mother that ill trick — ^pre- 
tending to know nought o’ the paper 
gave by Squire Honeythorn — but we be 
kind o’ relatives, after all ; and I’ll go 
in.” Accordingly, just about the time 
that Mr. Priar was at the Trailing 
Indian, Mary Barber was with the 
injured bailiff. 

“Where be you hurt. Drew?” she 
asked, setting down her jug. 

“ I can’t say where I be hurt,” retort- 
ed Drew, who was in a fractious humor. 
“ I don’t feel to be hurt nowhere much 
—but I’ve got no more power to stand 
nor a child. Drat it all ! I ought to 
ha’ been at Leigh-Sinton to-day, about 
some stock. Drat that beast of a Dob- 
bin ! and double drat him ! ” 

“ How came the beast to throw you ? ” 
was Mary Barber’s next question. 

Drew told her, just as he had told 
others, that he did not know how it was, 
or why it was. He described the sudden 
start and spring, the evident terror that 
had assailed the horse, all for no appar- 
ent cause. Mary Barber listened in 
silence, her mind busy. 

“ Drew,” said she, “ it must have been 
the Shadow that frightened him.” 

“ You are a fool,” returned Drew. 


“You called me that before, Drew, 
when I told you what mother said about 
the Shadow on the Hollow.” 

“ The old woman was dreaming when 
she said it,” returned Drew. 

“She was dying: not dreaming. 
And, Drew, them dying people some- 
times get a curiously-clear insight into 
things. What the Shadow she saw 
might be, I don’t know no more than 
you. But I be sure she did see it 
and I think it stands to reason it was 
that, and nought else, that startled Sir 
Dene’s horses. I should say the same 
thing startled Dobbin.” 

“ Why don’t you say as pigs fly ? ” 
roared Drew. 

“Because pigs don’t fly,” was the 
matter-of-fact answer. “ Any way. Drew, 
putting what mother said out o’ the 
question. Dene Hollow don’t seem to be 
a lucky road. If it never should be, 
one ought not to wonder. It was cut 
out of oppression ; it was formed out of 
a poor old woman’s sobs and cries ; it 
broke her heart, and took her life away 
afore its time. And God’s blessing per- 
haps ’ll not lie upon such work as that.” 

“ Granny Barber was a’most eighty. 
There warn’t no reason in a mummy, 
got to that age, a standing in the light 
of other folks.” 

“ Come, you be civil. Drew, toward a 
body that’s dead,” advised Mary Barber. 
“ Being come to that age, there was all 
the more reason why Sir Dene and you 
should have let her alone. She couldn’t 
be ‘expected, in the nature o’ things, to 
live much longer. I told Sir Dene so. 
If she’d been only a middle-aged woman, 
it might have been right to ask her to 
go out. Or, let’s say, not so cruel.” 

“ It’s a fine, grand, level road ; there 
ain’t a better in the country,” shrieked 
Drew, going beside the question. “ I 
dun’ know what ye would have ! ” 

“Any way, it don’t seem to carry 
travellers down it in safety,” retorted 
Mary Barber, who never failed to try 
for the last word. And Drew, recalled 
to the thought of his own mishap and 
present bed-ridden condition, turned his 
eyes away with a resentful grunt. 

“ I don’t wish to speak a word to hurt 
you. Drew, now that you be lying here, 
but I can’t help saying that if you had 
honestly told Sir Dene mother had that 
paper from Mr. Honeythorn — for you 


SIR DENE’S PERPLEXITY. 63 


knowed it just as well as she did — the 
road might never have been made, and 
this might not have happened. But I 
must be going,” she added, catching up 
the jug from the floor, where she had 
put it to stand, “ for they be waiting at 
home for this barm. And I wish ye 
well through, J onathan ; and I’ll look in 
again upon ye.” 

Hurrying away, jug in hand, amidst 
the trees by which the house was sur- 
rounded, she encountered Squire Arde : 
who was on his way to ask particulars 
of Drew’s mishap. Mary Barber stayed 
to give them to him, winding up with 
Priscilla’s account of the horse “ tearing 
home in a lather o’ foam.” 

Drew says he don’t know what fright- 
ened the horse ; Sir Dene didn’t know 
what frightened his horses : and perhaps 
it don’t much matter what it was,” she 
resumed. But I’m afeard o’ one thing, 
sir — that the new road is not going to be 
a lucky road. I’ve just said so to Drew.” 

“ Seems not to ha’ been over lucky as 
yet, Mary girl,” returned Squire Arde. 

Mary girl ! This hard-looking, mid- 
dle-aged woman seemed but as a girl to 
the old man. He had had her on bis 
knee when she was an infant. 

“Drew, he goes on about it’s being a 
beautiful fine road : and so it is,” said 
Mary Barber. “ But, ye see. Squire, 
’twas made out o’ my poor mother’s sobs 
and tears : and that’s not a good legacy.” 

“ I never liked that business,” re- 
marked Squire Arde, shaking his head. 
“ ’Twas no concern o’ mine : but I’d 
not ha’ done it had I been Sir Dene. 
’Tain’t well to remove your neighbor’s 
landmark.” 

“ It’s a odd thing, sir, come to think 
on’t, that them two should come to ill 
on the ro^d : Sir Dene and Drew.” 

“ Ay,” said the Squire absently. 
“ How’s that baby, up at your place ? ” 

“ It’s all right again now, sir. ’Twas 
her teeth. Many babies gets a fit o’ 
convulsion in cutting their teeth. A 
fine little child, it is ; as pretty as its 
mother.” 

“ So ’tis. How’s she ? ” 

“ She ? Well, I’d not like to be a 
croaker. Squire Arde, but I’m afraid we 
shan’t have her long among us. Mr. 
George, he sees it too, I think. She 
seems to be wasting away as poor young 
Tom wasted.” 


“ Tom ! Who’s Tom ? ” asked Squire 
Arde. 

“Tom Owen. He was the youngest 
of ’em, sir; a beautiful young lad, as 
well-looking as his father. He died in 
the old place ; afore we come to live 
here.” 

“ Well, it’s a nice baby ; ’t would be a 
pity for it to be left motherless,” con- 
cluded the Squire as he went on to 
Drew’s house. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

SIR dene’s perplexity. 

Sir Dene Clanwaring sat in his 
bay -windowed parlor at Beechhurst 
Dene. He seemed very busy and very 
restless. The table was strewed with 
papers and parchments ; the upright 
secretaire — or, as Sir Dene called it, 
secretary — standing against the wall 
opposite the window, was open. It 
seemed that Sir Dene did nothing but 
make pilgrimages from the papers on 
the table to the papers pushing out of 
the drawers and pigeon-holes of this 
piece of furniture. Altogether, the 
papers seemed to be somewhat confused: 
but, in truth, they w’ere not half as 
much so as was Sir Dene himself. 

The days had gone on ; Christmas 
was turned ; from a fortnight to three 
weeks had elapsed since the accident to 
Jonathan Drew. And Mr. Drew’s in- 
juries had turned out to be of a very 
serious character. After the first day 
or two of uncertainty, fresh advice was 
called in from Worcester: and it was 
decided that the spine was permanently 
injured. Drew was removed to Worces- 
ter to the house of his widowed daugh- 
ter : so as to have good nursing and 
advice. His furniture followed him, and 
the lodge where he had lived was left 
empty — for it w'as known that he would 
never be of use again. In one sense this 
was less of a misfortune to Drew than it 
would have been to many, for he had 
saved money and was comfortably off. 

But the state of perplexity it threw 
Sir Dene Clanwaring into, was untena- 
ble. Drew had united the offices of 
bailiff and steward : he had not only 
been manager of the estate out of doors, 
but kept the accounts connected with it. 


64 


DENE HOLLOW. 


All these papers on the table had been 
brought up from his house. Drew was 
too ill now to be consulted, or to be 
asked even a single question j and Sir 
Dene felt helpless as a child. 

He knew absolutely nothing about 
the deeds and other matters. A school- 
boy bade to sit down amidst a shoal of 
books, and prepare himself in one day 
for passing a civil service examination, 
could not have been more hopelessly at 
fault than was the master of Beechhurst 
Dene. One person alone, of all the 
world, could have helped him out of his 
dilemma : and that was his discarded 
son, Geoifry. 

Opening this parchment, shutting 
that, glancing at one receipt, throwing 
aside another, fuming and fretting ! 
While Sir Dene was thinking himself 
worse off than the babes in the wood. 
Gander entered. 

“ Farmer Hill has got me to come in 
and ask whether you’ll be likely to keep 
him much longer, Sir Dene. He says 
he has a sight o’ things to see about, 
this morning.” 

Sir Dene groaned. He was no nearer 
finding the papers, necessary to the busi- 
ness on which Mr. Hill had come up, 
than he was an hour before. 

“ I don’t know one iota about it. Gan- 
der ; that’s the fact ; and I can find 
nothing. Tell Mr. Hill to call again 
to-morrow morning: I’m sorry to have 
kept him waiting. And — here. Gander. 
Is Mr. Clan waring in ? ” 

“ Mr. Clanwaring’s lying on the sofa 
in the library. Sir Dene.” 

“ Ask him to step here.” 

John Clan waring appeared, a book in 
his hand. It was one of the volumes of 
“ Clarissa Harlowe.” Sir Dene, in his 
helpless perplexitjq appealed to his 
son. 

, “You are younger than I am, John, 
and your brain’s clear. Mine’s clear 
enough too, in one sense ; but I’ve never 
been used to this kind of thing. Do 
you think you could help me ? ” 

“ In what way ? ” asked Mr. Clan- 
waring — who had unwillingly dragged 
himself from London to spend Christ- 
mas at Beechhurst Dene, and intended 
to get away from it the moment he de- 
cently could. 

“Well, in — in looking into things. 
Getting some of these papers straight, 
for instance : and — and ■ mastering the 


various matters connected with the es- 
tate.” 

John Clanwaring quite believed he 
had not heard aright. 

“/, sir. I could not possibly under- 
take anything of the kind.” 

“ There’s nobody else so fit,” rather 
sharply spoke Sir Dene. “ It will be 
your own proper business sometime.” 

“ I expect when that time comes — 
which I hope will not be yet awhile, 
father,” he broke off to say in a fit of 
duty — “ that I shall mostly leave it to a 
steward, as you have done.” 

“ It is an awful trouble, for Drew to 
have fallen out of things in this sudden 
way ! Look at all these papers, John ! 

— I can’t make head or tail of them. 
And there’s twice as many more down at 
his house.” 

John Clanwaring looked from the 
papers on the table to those standing ^ 
out of the secretaire. He would as soon 
have meddled with the Augean stables. 

“ And things are going on out of doors 
nearly as bad as they are within,” re- 
sumed Sir Dene. “ The men — when 
they work at all — do it all the wrong 
way. They plough up meadows, and 
leave — for goodness’ sake don’t mix the 
papers, John ! I’ve had work enough to 
sort them.” 

For Mr. Clanwaring, seeking for a 
place on which to deposit his book, had 
been pushing some of the papers, one 
upon another. 

“ You won’t try what you can do 
then, John ? ” 

“ As I should be sure to make no hand 
at it, sir, I had better not.” 

“ At least you might ride about a bit, 
and direct out of doors.” 

“ I should only mislead ; knowing 
nothing about it myself, or what your 
wishes are. Besides, father, I shall be 
gone again in a day or two now. My 
chief home is London, you know, sir.” 

“ What will you do when you come 
into the place after me ? Whoever holds 
Beechhurst Dene should live on it.” 

“As of course I shall. It will be 
different then.” 

Sir Dene sat looking straight out before 
him. Some solution must be found to 
his present perplexity. His son spoke. 

“ If I were you, sir, I should engage 
a new bailiff forthwith. Some compe- 
tent man of experience, who can grasp 
these matters at once, in Drew’s place.” 


SIR DENE’S PERPLEXITY. 


65 


Should you ! ’’ retorted Sir Dene. 

He’d be more of a stranger to it all 
than I am : and who is there to put him 
in the right way, I’d like to know ? 
There’s only one man able to grasp them, 
and that’s your brother Geoffry.” 

Mr. Clanwaring drew in his thin lips, 
and superciliously took up his book. He 
considered it an insult to the rest of the 
'family for Geoffry to be so much as 
named in their hearing. 

If I put down a few heads of ques- 
tions upon paper, John, would you mind 
riding over to Malvern, and getting the 
answers to them from Geoffry ? ” 

“ I should mind it very much indeed, 
sir. Nothing would induce me to go on 
a mission to him. If absolutely neces- 
sary that some one should see him, send 
Gander.” 

Sir Dene, vexed with John, vexed 
^Jiwith everybody, said no more : and Mr. 
Clanwaring seized on the opportunity to 
return to his sofa and his novel. The 
baronet had missed Geoffry all along ; 
but never so much as now, at the close 
of the year. 

After the first burst of indignation 
had blown over, consequent on the dis- 
covery of the marriage, Sir Dene had 
calmed dowm wonderfully. John went 
away again. Miss Clewer betook herself 
off : there was only Sir Dene at home, 
and he felt very lonely. Not an hour of 
the day but he thought of Geoffry, who 
had never before given him an undutiful 
look or word, who had been his constant 
companion of late years ; he would often 
catch himself wishing that he could see 
Geoffry riding up the path. The apply- 
ing to Geoffry to help him out of this 
dilemma, resulting from the incapacity 
of Drew, seemed therefore more easy of 
accomplishment to Sir Dene than if his 
feelings had retained their full bitterness 
against his son. 

An hour longer he sat over these con- 
fusing papers, never touching them ; at- 
tempting no further to reduce them to 
order. Had he seen any other way out 
of the trouble, had any one living person 
save Geoffry, been able to help him, he 
would not have sought out his discarded 
son. But there was no one else : and so 
Sir Dene could not well help himself. 
He waited, shilly-shallying, until the 
afternoon was passing; and then, saying 
nothing to John of his intention, ordered 


his horse and rode away in the direction 
of Malvern. In his heart of hearts Sir 
Dene was glad at the opportunity of once 
more seeing Geoffry. 

never turned a deaf ear* to any 
request of mine, as John does,” thought 
the baronet bitterl3^ He would often 
feel a little bitter with his eldest sqp. 

At this time Great Malvern was a 
very different place from what it is now ; 
the houses did not much outnumber the 
hills. The cottage to whose lodgings 
Geoffry had taken his wdfe was a small 
abode nestled near the foot of the hill on 
the road leading to St. Ann’s Well. 
They had been married nearly two 
mouths now, and were in it still. 

It would have been dull for the young 
wife, the Christmas in these confined 
lodgings, but for the intense love she 
bore her husband. If hallowed by his 
presence all places were alike to her — a 
paradise. An African desert would not 
have been a desert with him. They 
were invited to spend Christmas Day at 
Harebell Farm : Geoffry Clanwaring ac- 
cepted it because it w^ould give pleasure 
to his wife. However, the day before 
Christmas Eve a deep snow set in, ren- 
dering the roads bad for travelling ; and 
so they stayed at home. A delusive 
dream of hope had lain on Geoffry — that 
his father might relent in the blessed 
Christmas-tide, and summons him and 
his young wife to Beechhurst Dene. 

This was the last day of the old year ; 
and it was Geoffry’s birthday. Twenty- 
six to-day. He had suddenly remem- 
bered it as they were seated at their one 
o’clock dinner, and proclaimed it to his 
wufe. 

‘‘ Oh, Geoffry ! — never to have told 
me ! Never to have let me wish you 
many happy returns of it when you woke 
this morning ! ” 

‘‘ I forgot all about it. You can wish 
it now, love.” 

She ^ot up and put her arms about his 
neck, whispering softly ; the tears filling 
her eyes with the intensity of her emo- 
tion.. Geoffry held her to him while he 
thanked and kissed her. Kissed her as 
fondly as he had on their wedding- 
day. 

“We ought to have made a festival 
of it, Geoffry,” she said, going back to 
her place ; “ to have had a plum-pud- 


66 


DENE HOLLOW. 


ding at the very least. And there^s 
only this cold beef for you ! 

Cold beef is as good as hot, Maria.” 

‘‘ I shall make a feast for tea.” 

He laughed a little. “ What will it 
be ? E-oast peacock ? ” 

^‘Jam; and pikelets; and Malvern 
cakes.” 

You extravagant girl ! ” 

“ But it won’t be your birthday again 
until next year.” 

When dinner was over, and Geoffry 
sat thinking of things, it occurred to 
him to wonder whether his birthday 
was being remembered at Beechhurst 
Dene ; and whether a letter of repen- 
tance, written to his father on that 
day, might produce any softening to- 
wards him. It would be necessary to 
try to induce Sir Dene to relent if pos- 
sible ; for his little stock of hoarded 
money would not last for ever. He 
and Maria were practising plain econ- 
omy : but times were hard at that 
period, provisions very dear. 

“ A letter will do no harm if it does 
no good,” decided Geoffry. “And in 
any case I should like to wish my 
father a happy New Year.” So he 
drew his chair to the table and wrote. 

The snow had disappeared some days 
now, and this day was very fine; but 
early in the afternoon that dense mist 
came on, well known to the dwellers 
under the Malvern Hills. It used to 
be worse than it ever is now : perhaps 
the mist cannot fight against the large 
town the place has grown into — the 
number of houses, their warmth, their 
lights, and the heat of the fires and 
gas. At half-past three o’clock, when 
Geoffry folded his letter, he could hard- 
ly see to write the address. 

Sitting down by the fire, he stirred 
it into a blaze, and drew his wife to 
him. She was putting up her work, 
for it was too dark to continue it. 

“ J ust look at the mist, Geoffry ! ” 

‘^Aye. You cannot go out now, 
young lady, for your Malvern cakes. 
I shan’t let you.” 

She had been saying that she would 
go with him when he went to post his 
letter. Maria looked out at the mist a 
little wistfully. 

‘‘.You will bring the cakes in for me 
instead, won’t you, Geoffry ? And the 
pikelets.” 


“ I dare say ! ” 

“And we will have tea early, and 
shut out the mist — say, half-past four. 
Oh Geoffry, it will be a happy eve- 
ning ! ” 

“ You little syren ! ” 

He sat on, talking with her of the 
letter, of the probable effect it might 
have on Sir Dene ; and the minutes 
slipped on. When the clock struck 
four, Geoffry rose to go on his errand. 

“ How many pikelets, and how many 
cakes ? ” 

“ Three pikelets,” she answered ; 
“two for you and one for me. And 
three twopenny cakes.” “ Malvern 
cakes,” it should be said, had in 
those days a world-wide fame. 

“And the jam j^ou talked of? I’m 
sure the shops will take me for a 
porter.” 

“Jam! Oh, I have plenty of that. 
Mamma gave me some jars of several 
sorts when we were last there. Don’t 
you remember, Geoffry? — we brought 
it home in the gig.” 

Geoffry Glanwaring went into the 
bedroom for some silver, and departed. 
Maria called the landlady, asked her 
to bring in the best tea-things, and 
said there would be pikelets to toast. 
That worthy person immediately turn- 
ed crusty — which she had a habit of 
doing. The best tea-things she made 
no objection to: but the pikelets were 
pronounced “ unpossible.” She had 
just raked up her kitchen fire, leav- 
ing only a spark o’ blaze to bile the 
kettle, for she was a-going out later 
to watch in the New Year with a 
friend. Pikelets couldn’t be toasted 
no-how at the black bars. 

“ Never mind, Mrs. Brown, I’ll toast 
them here,” said Maria cheerfully — 
who, young and timid, was entirely 
under Mrs. Brown’s dominion. “Bring 
in the butter, please, and the toasting- 
fork.” . ^ 

“I shall dress in my best for this 
evening,” thought Maria, as she watch- 
ed the woman lay the table. “ I will 
go now, while Geoflfry’s away, and sur- 
prise him. And then I shall be ready 
to do the pikelets.” 

The first thing Maria saw when she 
enured the bedroom was the letter ly- 
ing 'on the dressing-table. Geoffry 
must have laid it down, and forgotten 


SIR DENE’S PERPLEXITY. 


67 


it. She made ready, all but her dress ; 
then carried the letter to the other 
room, and waited, knowing he would 
be coming back for it. 

Presently he appeared, with the 
paper of pikelets, the cakes, and a 
beautiful pink camelia, that he had 
picked up somewhere, for Maria. 
She strenuously declared that it ought 
to be in his own coat, as it was his 
fete day. Geoffry laughed well at that, 
and put it in her dress-body, saying 
that a dandelion would be more in 
place for him. 

“Do you know that you left Sir 
Dene’s letter at home, Geoffry ? ” 

“I know it now. The hunt I had 
in my pockets when I went to put it 
into the box, amused the village boj^s 
amazingly.” 

He took the letter, went out again, 
and Maria hastened to attire herself 
in the gala robes. It was her wedding- 
dress that she put on ; the beautiful 
sprigged India muslin she was married 
in. No opportunity had offered of 
wearing it since : and perhaps it was 
rather light in texture for this evening, 
'what with the cold season, and what 
with the mist. Maria deemed it the 
most appropriate dress in the world — 
for was it not her husband’s birthday ? 

With her beautiful hair falling; with 
no ornament in the delicate robe, save 
the pink camelia ; with her pretty white 
neck and arms bare, after the fashion of 
the day, Maria Clanwaring returned to 
the parlor as charming a picture as 
man’s eye ever rested on. The candles 
were lighted on the table ; and — if she 
stole a glance of admiration at herself 
in the chimney glass, vanity itself would 
forgive the sin. 

“ Geoffry will not know me,” she 
softly said, as she knelt down to toast 
the pikelets. Why ! — how soon he is 
back ! ” 

For the front door had been knocked 
at and answered. Steps approached the 
room ; the door was flung wide, just as 
Geoffry flung it. 

“ You’ll not know me, Geoffry.” 

“ Is Geoffry Clanwaring here ? ” 

The voice was a strange voice, proud 
and stern. Maria started up, nearly 
dropping the pikelet off the toasting- 
fork into the ashes. She felt ready to 
drop too when she saw Sir Dene. They 


stood, gazing at each other: Maria in 
trembling dismay ; Sir Dene in in- 
voluntary admiration. 

Never in all his life had he seen so 
lovely a picture. She looked, in this 
white dress, little more than a child, with 
her smooth falling curls, her blushing 
cheeks, and her delicate face. Gently 
putting down the fork — it was at least 
a yard and a half long — she moved a 
little nearer, in all shrinking modesty, 
to receive him. 

“ You are my son’s wife, I suppose, 
young lady ? ” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ And one to make any son forget his 
allegiance for,” muttered Sir Dene to 
himself. “ Hanged if I’m sure I should 
not have done as Geoff did ! ” 

“ Will you please to take a seat, sir ? ” 
she ventured to ask. 

“ I’ll shake hands with you first, my 
dear,” he said. And, taking her hand, 
he stooped and kissed her. 

The tears rushed into Maria Clanwar- 
ing’s eyes at the unexpected kindness. 
Sir Dene saw them, and kissed her a 
second time. 

“ There’s nothing to cry for, my dear.” 

“ Oh, sir, it is your kindness ! I think 
Geoffry, when he knows it, will be near- 
ly ready to cry too.” 

“ Where is Geoffry ? ” asked the baro- 
net, sitting down. 

“ He has gone out to put a letter in 
the post : it is for you, sir. He will not 
be long.” 

“ And you were toasting pikelets for 
tea,” said Sir Dene, observing the good 
things on the table. 

“ The landlady had let her fire go low, 
sir, and could not do them. But it is 
Geoffry’s birthday.” 

“ His birthday ! ” cried Sir Dene. 
“ I forgot it.” 

“ That is why we are having a nice 
tea,” she continued, half in apology, 
deeming some kind of explanation 
necessary. 

“ And why you are dressed up,” added 
Sir Dene smiling. 

“ Yes, sir. It is my best white 
frock. I — ” was married in it, she had 
been about to add, but remembered in 
time to change the words — “ had just 
put it on. Geoffry brought me home 
this beautiful flower.” 

A beautiful flower no doubt; but a 


68 


DENE HOLLOW. 


Bweeter flower, slie. A simple, guileless, 
pure girl : that was self-evident. Sir 
Dene had been in the room but two or 
three minutes, and he felt that he nearly 
loved her. The next entrance was that 
of Geoffry: who stood in unmitigated 
astonishment. Between his father’s 
presence and his wife’s dress, he thought 
he must be looking at a vision. 

Sir Dene did not shake hands with his 
son. An idea struck him that it might 
be a compromise of dignity to do that all 
at once. He told Geoffr}’’, speaking dis- 
tantly, of the difficulty he was placed in 
through the accident to Drew, and that 
he should require his assistance to dis- 
entangle affairs from the confusion that, 
to him, they appeared to be in. Geoffry 
at once replied that he would do any- 
thing and everything in his power. See- 
ing them thus engaged, Maria, almost 
by stealth, resumed her toasting. Geof- 
fry came up, and would have taken the 
fork from her. 

I’ll do this, my dear — if it has to be 
done here? What’s Mrs. Brown about?” 

‘‘ She has let her fire out. Flease^ 
Geoffry, let me do it,” she whispered. 
“ Indeed, indeed I would rather ! Stay 
you with Sir Dene.” 

She was in real earnest, her trembling 
voice and her eyes alike pleading anx- 
iously. So Geoffry relinquished the 
fork to her and returned to his father. 
When the pikelets were buttered and 
the tea made, she waited by the fire in 
silence. Geoffry looked at the table and 
looked at his father. 

“Would you take some tea with us, 
sir,” he asked with much deprecation. 

“ I don’t care if I have a cup,” said 
Sir Dene. “ The mist has got into my 
throat.” 

So they all sat down together ; Maria’s 
hand shaking visibly when she handed 
him his cup. “A good, modest, gentle 
girl, and every inch a lady — as poor 
Geoff said,” again thought Sir Dene. 

“ She’s worth a dozen of John’s grand 
London wenches, with their powdered 
and patched faces.” 

Sir Dene partook of the good things 
wuth much relish; the pikelets, the 
cakes, the strawberry jam ; and he drank 
three cups of tea. He said he must go 
unless he would be entirely benighted. 
He did not kiss Maria when he went 
away : but he shook hands cordially, 


and called her “ my dear.” It was ar- 
ranged that Geoffry should meet Sir 
Dene at Drew’s house as early as he 
could get there after breakfast in the 
morning. Geoffry walked down wuth 
his father to the small inn — the Uni- 
corn — where he had left his horse ; and 
saw him mount. Sir Dene gave him 
his hand. 

“ Thank you, father, for coming over,” 
said Geoffry in a low tone that was full 
of feeling. “ Thank you doubly for 
speaking kindly to my wife.” 

“ Well, you see, Geoffry, she’s — she’s 
very nice and pretty.” 

“ She is more than that, father. 
Good night, sir.” 

Standing over the 'fire with his wife 
when he got back, his arm round her 
waist, her head leaning against him, 
Geoffry Clan waring spoke of the hopeful 
turn that affairs seemed to have taken. 
He had been feeling the estrangement 
from his father and his home far more 
deeply than he had ever cared to tell his 
wife. 

“ Sir Dene may not take us into full 
favor quite at once, Maria ; it is not to 
be expected ; but I think the way is 
being paved for it.” 

“He kissed me, Geoffry,” she whis- • 
pered, her eyes shining tlirough their 
glad tears. 

“ Kissed you ! ” 

“ He kissed me twice ; he did indeed. 

It was when he first came in.” 

“Thank God!” thought Geoffry. 
But he said nothing. Only held his 
wife the closer. 


CHAPTER IX. 

THE bailiff’s LODGE. 

Be you very sure Geoffry Clanwariim 
did not let the grass grow under his 
horse’s feet in riding over to Hurst Lee\ 
^e following morning. New Year’s Day 
Break of day had seen him in the saddle 
At Drew’s house he found Simmons the 
gamekeeper : who had been placed in it 
to take care of things upon the bailiff’s 
departure. 

It was a very pretty place, this dwell- 
commonly called the bailifiPs lodge. 
Mr. Honey thorn used to say it was 
too good for Jonathan Drew. Had a 


THE BAILIFF’S LO.DGE. 


69 


gentleman inhabited it he would have 
styled it a cottage ornee. Sheltered 
amidst trees and shrubs, with some of 
the same kind of yellow jasmine on its 
walls that had been on the Widow Bar- 
ber’s, it was as rural a lodgment as any 
in the district. There were two sitting 
rooms : one, used as a bureau, or office, 
by Drew, contained the papers and 
things relating to the estate ; the other 
had not been used at all ; for Mr. Drew 
had found the kitchen good enough for 
his meals and evenings. The chambers 
above were three : two large, one small. 

Geofifry Clanwaring sat down at once 
to the papers ; and when Sir Dene ar- 
rived, they were all in nice order for the 
explanation to him. For a good half- 
hour Sir Dene did his best to master 
them : and found it a failure. 

I’ll tell you what it is, Geoffry,” said 
he. “ I shall make nothing of these 
things myself : my capacity does not lie 
in this bent, I think ; and John won’t 
attempt it — though he ought. You will 
have to come back again.” 

“ I should desire nothing better than 
to be allowed to come back,” spoke Geof- 
fry with candor. 

“Not to Beechhurst Dene,” hastily 
rejoined Sir Dene, fearing he might be 
misunderstood. “ That could not be. 
I should have your brothers up in arms : 
John especially. Beginald is at a safe 
distance, thank goodness. He can write 
sharp letters, though.” 

“ I did not think of coming back to 
Beechhurst Dene, sir,” said Geoffry 
quietly. 

“ That’s well. Look here, Geoffry : 
I must speak out plainly, and then we 
shall understand each other,” continued 
Sir Dene. “ You were guilty of an act, 
marrying as you did, entirely unjustifia- 
ble: it involved, to me, both disobedi- 
ence and ingratitude. Had your wife 
been — been — different from what she is ; 
had she been vulgar or upstart, for in- 
stance, I could never have forgiven you. 
Never. As it is — well, I must partly 
forgive you. Though I cannot receive 
you on a familiar footing as one of mj^ 
sons, or welcome you to Beechhurst 
Dene, I will extend to you my counte- 
nance in a degree. If you are not above 
taking the management of things in 
Drew’s place, why I will make it worth 
your while.” 


“ I am not above it, I assure you, sir,’^ 
said Geoffry ; “ but would accept the 
post and thank you very truly. After 
all, I shall only be doing what I have 
done ever since you bought the property. 
More responsibility will lie on me ; 
somewhat more work ; that is the only 
difference, sir.” 

“ You would have to live on the spot, 
you know.” 

“ Of course. Why could I not have 
this house, sir ? ” 

Sir Dene coughed. With all his vexa- 
tion, with all Geoffry’s misdoings, he had 
not liked to propose that a son of his 
should succeed to the bailiff’s cottage.. 

“ It would be the best and most con- 
venient thing. But I thought you 
might not like it, Geoffry.” 

Geoffry Clanwaring smiled. “ After 
our two rooms at Malvern, sir, I fear I 
and Maria shall be fancying ourselves in 
a palace here.” 

“ Then that’s all settled, Geoffry,” 
concluded Sir Dene gladly, as if he ex- 
perienced a kind of relief. “ I’ll have 
some furniture put into it, and you had 
better move over without delay. Or, 
stay. Do you get the furniture, Geof- 
fry,” added Sir Dene on second 
thoughts : “ you know best what will 
please you and your wife. Pay for it 
out of the funds : you’ll have plenty in 
hand now.” 

“ Thank you very much, father.” 

“And now come up to Beechhurst,” 
said Sir Dene. “ The papers there are 
in a fine mess : and Hill no doubt is in 
a passion at being kept waiting two 
mornings running. He was already 
there when I came away.” 

They walked up the new road. Dene 
Hollow. It was only natural that the 
spot should bring back the remembrance 
of Drew’s accident. Geoffry, who had 
not heard much of the particulars, in- 
quired how Dobbin, known to be so sure- 
footed, came to throw his rider. <> 

“Nobody seems to be able to tell,” 
replied Sir Dene. “ Drew says he can’t. 

It made me think of our accident, Geof- • 
fry : we never could imagine what pos- 
. sessed the horses, you know. ’Twas just 
in the same spot, too.” 

“ It seems odd,” said Geoffry. 

“ Our mishap was odd — and to me 
always will be — but I don’t say as much 
for Drew’s. Many a horse, brave as a 


70 


DENE HOLLOW. 


lion by day, will start at shadows cast 
by the moonlight. Besides ” 

“ Besides what, sir ? ” asked Geoffry. 
For Sir Dene had made a sudden pause. 

“ Well, Geoff — though I’d not mention 
it to any one but you,” broke off Sir 
Dene confidentially — “ I cannot help 
thinking that Drew must have had a 
drop more than was good for him at the 
time. He had had a long and tedious 
journey, and the night was cold. If a 
man’s seat is not steady, a slight thing 
will unhorse him : the very fact of 
Dobbin’s galloping down the hill might 
do it.” 

‘‘1 have never once seen Drew the 
worse for drink,” was Geoffry’s reply to 
this. 

Neither have I — don’t think I would 
asperse the man causelessly,” returned 
Sir Dene. “ Briar, too, says he was 
sober. But still there’s a lurking doubt 
on my mind that he was not himself: 
and I don’t say it without a reason.” 

What is the reason, sir ?” naturally 
questioned Geoffry. 

Upon that, Sir Dene told the tale — 
calling it a cock-and-bull story — that 
had been told him : of what Drew saw, 
or thought he saw, at the Trailing Indian. 
Sir Dene entirely disbelieved it. The 
surgeon had informed him what Black’s 
version was ; and Sir Dene, judging 
by common sense, believed that to be 
the true version. Geoffry listened in 
silence. 

.‘‘Now what I think is this, Geoff : 
That no man could go the length of 
fancying he saw what Drew fancied, 
unless his imagination and ej’^esight were 
both a little helped by drink. If so, 
this would account for the accident. 
Drew confesses he was going down here 
at a tolerable pace.” 

Sir Dene turned his eyes on the road 
as he spoke. They were just abreast of 
the spot. 

“ Did Drew hold to his story after- 
w’ards ? ” asked Geoffry. 

“ In the most positive manner. He 
^ says he was never in his life more sure 
of anything than he is that the coffin 
came out of the inn, Of course, having 
fancied he saw it, it became impressed 
upon his imagination.” 

“ For my own part, I should not be 
bisposed to trust to a word asserted by 
Black,” remarked Geoffry. “ I’d rather 
delieve Drew than him.” 


“ Nonsense,” said Sir Dene. “ Drew’s 
story carries improbability on the face 
of it ; whereas Black’s has been con- 
firmed. There was nobody ill at the 
Trailing Indian : nobody was stopping 
there : so how could anybody die ? ” 

‘‘ In what way was Black’s account 
confirmed ? ” asked Geoffry. 

“ He said that the hearse merely 
called at the inn to bait the horses. 
About ten o’clock, he told Briar, it drove 
in. Now it happened that some man 
Briar knows saw a hearse turn off the 
turnpike-road at that hour and drive in 
to the inn yard. So far, Black was con- 
firmed.” 

“Yes,” acquiesced Geoffry. But it 
crossed his mind that the hearse must 
equally have driven in sometime had its 
errand been to fetch the dead away. 

“ Have you seen Black, sir, and ques- 
tioned him upon the subject ?•” 

“ Not I,” said Sir Dene. “ Why 
should I ? He would probably tell me 
to my face that hearses are just as much 
at liberty to demand refreshment at his 
house as carriages. In short, I hold no 
doubt whatever that the whole explana- 
tion, both of that and the subsequent 
accident, lies in the fact that Drew had 
taken a glass to much.” 

“ It may have been so, sir. But I 
have a bad opinion of Black. I don’t 
think he would stick at much.” 

“ It is just this, Geoff, as I believe : 
that Black’s case is an illustration of the 
old saying, ‘ Give a dog a bad name, and 
hang him.’ He is not a white sheep by 
any means : but I dare say report makes 
him out to be a great deal worse than 
he is in reality. Come along.” 

In gQing up the slight ascent. Sir 
Dene, qui^e unconciously, took Geoffry’s 
ar^jiJ**^. Forgetting thej^apade of which 
his sbfi had been guilt;|^quite forgetting 
the late estrangement, *he put his arm 
within Geoffry’s as he used to do. A 
gentleman, who happened to be walking 
amidst the trees on the high bank above 
them that skirted the side of the road, 
approached the edge and cautiously 
leaned over to look down. It was the 
heir, John Clanwaring. He had recog- 
nised his father’s voice, and wondered 
who it was that he was with. 

And if Mr. Clanwaring had seen Sir 
Dene familiarly walking with a long- 
armed baboon, he could not have felt 
more utterly astonished. With G^of- 


THE BAILIFF’S LODGE. 


71 


fry ! — arm in arm ! John Clan waring 
closed his eyes for a moment and opened 
them again, thinking perhaps some mist 
obscured his sight. But no. It was 
Geofifry. Geoffry the renegade ! The 
heir stood holding on by the firm tree- 
trunk watching them up, and wondering 
whether his father had gone clean mad. 

He watched them in at the gates of 
Beechhurst Dene : he saw the woman 
at the lodge run out to drop a curtsey to 
her master. She dropped two — two ! — 
to Geoffry. Mr Clanwaring came to the 
conclusion that not only Sir Dene must 
be mad, but a great part of the world 
beside him. 

Little suspecting that condemning 
eyes were following them. Sir Dene and 
Geoffry continued their way to the house, 
turning off to the side entrance. Mr. 
Clanwaring went on slowly to the front, 
gained the library, and rang an imperi- 
ous peal on the bell for Gander. 

Did Sir Dene come in a few minutes 
ago ? ” 

“ Yes, sir,” was the man’s reply. 

He’s come in with Mr. Geoffry. They 
be hard at work amid the papers in Sir 
Dene’s parlor. Hill at the Lea farm 
is gone in to ’em now.” 

From Gander’s long service in the 
family, and the confidential terms he 
was on with the boys when they were 
young, they said anything to him, never 
caring to be reticent. 

I wonder Sir Dene did not kick him 
out, rather than hand him into his par- 
lor,” quoth Mr. Clanwaring, standing 
before the fire with his coat-tails under 
his arms, and speaking deliberately. 

‘‘Mr. Geoffry have come 'by appoint- 
ment, sir,” said Gander, who liked the 
younger brother ten times better than he 
did the elder. “ Leastways, I take it 
to be so.” 

“And why do you ‘take it’ to be 
so ? ” scornfully asked the heir. 

“ Because Sir Dene says to me last 
night, says he, ‘Mind you get a good 
fire early in my parlor. Gander : I’m 
expecting Mr. Geofiry on business.’ 
That’s why, sir.” 

“ Mr. Geoffry must have the impu- 
dence of Satan to write and proffer a 
visit Aere,” cried John Clanwaring, as- 
suming such to have been the fact. 

“ Well, Mr. Clanwaring, it strikes me 
that Sir Dene went and fetched him,” 


returned Gander confidentially, secretly 
rejoicing that he had it to say. “ When 
Sir Dene got home last night, he told 
the groom that him and his horse had 
a’most got lost in the mist, coming down 
the Link. So we took it that he must 
have been to Malvern.” 

Worse and worse. John Clanwaring 
sighed impatiently for Gander to go, and 
then indulged his wrath alone. Let us 
give him his due : except on the score 
of the marriage, he had no ill feeling 
against Geoffry; but in his proud and 
haughty temper, he considered that act 
had brought a stain on the family not to 
be redeemed. 

The morning wore on. Sir Dene and 
Geoffry remained in the parlor, very 
busy. At luncheon time Gander went 
to tell his master that it was read)’. 

Sir Dene rose ; and sat down again. 
How could he go to his luncheon and 
not ask Geoffry ? And yet — to invite 
him to partake of a meal in the house 
would look as if his offence were entirely 
condoned. And (here lay the obstacle) 
what would John say? 

“ Oh, bother John — I can’t help it,” 
ncientally spoke Sir Dene in his perplex- 
ity. “ Will you come and have some 
lunch, Geoffry? Yoa uiu|t be peckish 
after your early ride.” 

“ Thank you, sir,” said Geoffry. And 
rose to follow him. 

In the dining-room stood the heir. 
When he saw Geoffry come in with his 
father, quite as it -used to be, to sit down 
at the same table, one of the family, he 
felt that it was a little more than he 
could stand. Geoffry went up to him, 
his kindly eyes looking straight into his 
brother’s, as he held out his hand hesi- 
tatingly. 

“ You \spild not shake my hand the 
last time we parted, John ; your anger 
was fresh against me then. Will you 
now ? ” 

“No,” said John Clanwaring, in a 
voice low from concentrated passion. He 
was never loud, this young man; but all 
the more firm and bitter. 

“ And yet, my father has — in a degree 
— forgiven me ! ” 

“But that I see — what I see — with 
my own eyes, I had not believed that 
Sir Dene would have lent his counte- 
nance to disgrace.” 

“ Oh hang it, John ! ” interposed Sir 


J 


72 


DENE HOLLOW. 


Dene testily, not feeling over comforta- 
ble, and half ashamed of his own len- 
iency. “ Geoifry is the only one who 
can help me out of the confusion caused 
by Drew’s departure. You would not 
try, you know. Come, sit down.” 

“No, Sir Dene. Not with him.” 

“ He is your brother, John.” 

“Unfortunately — yes. But I can 
never again regard him as one.” 

Mr. Clanwaring stalked deliberately 
out of the room, vouchsafing no further 
notice. Ordering Gander, as he brushed 
by the man, to bring him a plate of 
something to the library. 

“ You see the difficulties I have to 
contend with, Geoffry,” quietly remarked 
Sir Dene, when they sat down. “ I 
can’t do quite as I would.” 

“ Yes, sir, I see,” was the answer. 
“ Be assured I will not intrude upon j'ou 
here, unnecessarily to increase them.” 

And so, Geoffry Clanwaring and his 
wife took up their abode in the bailiff’s 
lodge. And the months went on. 


CHAPTER X. 

m THE SAME SPOT. 

Mr. and Mrs. Owen sat at supper 
in the ordinary living room at Harebell 
Farm. They were taking it later than 
usual. It was Saturday, and Easter 
Eve. The farmer had been over to Wor- 
cester market ; after 'his business was 
transacted, he had gone to stay the eve- 
ning with his daughter Mary and her 
husband and invite them to spend Easter 
Day at the Farm. Which made him 
late in reaching home. 

“ How does she look, Robert ? ” ques- 
tioned Mrs. Owen, upon his flaying that 
the invitation was declined. 

“ Polly ? She is — I don’t see that 
she looks much better,” was the cautious 
answer. Glancing at his wife from 
under his handsome eyelids, Robert 
Owen decided that she was too poorly 
just now to be troubled unnecessarily. 
The impulsive reply he had been about 
to utter was “ She is worse, and 
weaker.” 

“ And the baby ? ” • 

“ Oh that’s peart enough. It’s a 
pretty little thing ; can almost talk.” 

Mrs. Owen laughed slightly. “ Al- 


most talk ! Why, she is but nine 
months old yet.” 

“Any way, she tries to. Girls are 
never backward with their tongues. 
The child had got its sleeves looped 
up with a row of pink coral beads, gold 
clasps,” continued Mr. Owen. “ Squire 
Arde took them there this week. He 
said they had belonged to his own child 
when she was a baby.” 

“ That’s a curious thing for Squire 
Arde to do ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Owen 
after a pause of consideration. “ One 
would think he must have taken a fancy 
to the child.” 

“ Oh I don’t know,” said the less 
imaginative farmer. “ He might have 
thought ’twas as well to put the beads 
to use • — lying by and doing nothing. 
Polly was saying that Geoffry Clanwar- 
ing and Maria have promised to go over 
for a day next week.” 

Supper over, Mary, Barber came in to 
take the tray away. Joan, the hardwork- 
ing household servant, was never kept 
up later than ten, except on an emer- 
gency. It was nearly eleven now, and 
she had been in bed an hour. The far- 
mer began looking about for his cap. 

“ Have you to go out again to-night, 
Robert ? ” asked Mrs. Owen. 

“ As far as the two-acre meadow : I 
must take a look at Lightfoot.” 

“ Bugle is sure to have gone round 
there the last thing,” she rejoined, 
slightly in remonstrance. . 

“ Not so sure, Betsey,” was the dis- 
senting answer. “ He has been grow- 
ing lazy of late — or careless. Was Cole 
up to-day, do you know ? ” 

“ Yes. Joan said she saw him in the 
yard with Bugle. I am sure you must 
be tired, Robert. I don’t see that you 
need go.” 

^ “I shall go,” persisted the farmer, 
rather obstinately. “ You had better 
get to bed, as it’s late.” 

“ Then you’ll read now,” said Mrs. 
Owen. For the day was always finished 
up at Harebell Farm with a chapter 
from the Bible. As Robert Owen took 
the book, his wife opened the parlor door. 

“ Mary, will you come in to the read^ 
ing ? ” 

I be busy, missis,” was the reply 
given back to her from the kitchen. 

“ It will not hinder you more than two 
or three minutes,” said Mrs. Owen. 


k 


IN THE SAME SPOT. 


73 


“ It’ll hinder me more time than I 
can spare, with all these here late sup- 
per things to clear up: and I’m sure 
I’m not a-going to leave ’em till morn- 
ing,” returned independent Mary Bar- 
ber. “ The master can read without me 
to-night, missis.” And Mrs. Owen shut 
the door again. 

He was going regularly through the 
gospels, and read the chapter at which he 
had left off the previous night — the 8th 
of St. Mark. Then he put on his great 
coat; took his hat — not readily finding 
the cap he kept for night use — and went 
out. 

It was a night late in March, almost* 
April, but different from the one twelve 
months before, when the two men in 
smock-frocks had gone stealing up 
Harebell Lane. That night was bright 
and gusty ; this, still and misty. The 
moon ought to have been out to-night, 
but was not. Lightfoot, a favorite cow, 
was lying ill in the shed off the two-acre 
paddock : and Robert Owen had latterly 
had cause to doubt the attention of Bu- 
gle, his herdsman : hence his personal 
visit. He reached the shed ; found all 
tolerably right there, and turned his 
steps homewards again. 

Ever since he came out, his thoughts 
had been glancing back to the chapter 
he had read : now that his mind was at 
rest as to Ligh-tfbot, he let them dwell 
entirely upon it. 

‘‘ Ay, true,” ran his reflections ; 

what shall it profit — though a man 
gain the whole world, if he lose his own 
soul ? ’Tis but a short life here at best : 
and there’s all the never-ending ages 
of Eternity to succeed it. Why don’t 
we, throughout our poor brief lives, 
take better note of the lessons God has 
written for us ? ” 

Why it was that Robert Owen should 
thus have taken better note ” latterly, 
he could not tell. The fact was so. 
Without any apparent will of his, he 
had found his thoughts turned abso- 
lutely on serious things, and on the life 
that must come after this life. Three 
months ago, at the new year, he had 
quite electrified his wife (and astonished 
the parson) by staffing at church to 
take the sacrament. For Robert Owen, 
like too many more householders of the 
district — and of other districts too, for 
that matter — had not been in the habit 


of doing such a thing. They were con- 
tent to leave this practical part of reli- 
gion to the women and to a future time. 
Perhaps it was the thought of his dying 
daughter — for that Mary Arde was dy- 
ing, dying gradually, lay on him with a 
conviction firm and sure — that brought 
these reflections home to him, especially 
to-night. They had never been more 
vivid. 

“ Poor young Tom gone on, and Polly 
going: William and Maria left. Two 
in that world : two in this. Somehow, 
I feel as if I’d as soon go as stay. If 
Betsey — halloa ! Who’s abroad at this 
hour ? ” 

The sound of footsteps and suppressed 
voices had struck upon his ear. He 
was in that narrow pathway, between 
the grove of trees and the fence, just 
above Harebell Pond. As it had. been 
that past night twelve months before, so 
it was this. The two self-same men — 
or two that looked precisely like them — 
came stealing up the lane ; nothing was 
in their hands : but by daylight the 
smock-frocks might have looked 
rather bulky. Just as Robert Owen 
had been in that spot and watched them 
pass that other night, here he was this. 
It was a singular coincidence : he had 
never seen men since in that particular 
spot. 

He stood his ground, leaning side- 
ways against the fence and looking at 
them as they came on. It was sufii- 
ciently light for them to see him there, 
but they passed on without speaking ; 
apparently without looking. 

“ More underhand work at the Trail- 
ing Indian,” thought Robert Owen, as 
he pursued his way homewards. ‘‘I 
wish that affair of what Drew saw was 
cleared up ! I don’t like it — and so I 
told Priar ; in spite of Mr. Randy 
Black’s glib explanation. However, 
it is no business of mine.” 

The men were the same that had 
gone up the former night — Michael 
Geach and Robson. They arrived at 
the Trailing Indian in a state of fury. 
Even Geach, generally so careless and 
easy, had changed his tone of late, and 
become quite as savage as Robson in 
regard to what they thought was the 
espionage of the master of Harebell 
Farm. 

^‘It’s true, as I’m a living man, 


74 


DENE HOLLOW. 


Black ! ” he foamed, when they were 
disencumbering themselves in the pri- 
vate room of sundry articles that had 
been stutfed about them. “ In that 
there old spy-place, just above the pond, 
there he was, the devil.’’ 

Black answered by some of his bad 
language. 

“ I’ll tell ye what it is, mates,” 
spoke up Robson, waking from a, sul- 
len reverie, and bringing his closed 
hand down with passionate force 
upon the table — “ that there man 
must have some means of getting at 
our movements. It’s as sure as eggs 
is eggs.” 

“ I have thought so some months 
past, be shot if I’ve not,” acquiesced 
the landlord. 

Geach, never prone to be very sus- 
picious, glanced questioningly from 
one to the other. He did not readily 
understand. “What d’ye mean?” he 
asked. 

“ What do us mean,” retorted Rob- 
son, “ why what should us mean ? 
Owen has got spies at work, and lays 
hisself out to watch us according to 
tlie information they bring him in. 
Don’t ye be a fool, Geach.” 

“ I’m no more a fool than somebody 
else is. How could Owen have spies 
at work ? ” 

“ I dun’ know how he could : he has” 
retorted Robson. “Send me dumb, if 
it ain’t so. Warn’t he stuck in that 
there place to-night, awaiting and 
watching for us ? But for expecting 
of us to come, would he ha’ been out 
at this hour, perched there ? No : it 
don’t stand to reason as he would. 
There be none of his ewes i’ th’ mead 
now.” 

“ Robson’s right,” spoke Black. 

I’ve been . a’most sure of it since 
the night he watched the load away 
in the hearse. How could he ha’ 
knowed anything was to -jbe took away 
that there particular night, but for 
being informed of it? Would he ha’ 
stopped out at that there stile a-watch- 
ing our place till past midnight for 
nothing ? Yoi* must be a fool, Geach, 
if you think he’d ha’ posted himself 
there on spec.” 

A silence ensued, the three men 
looking at each other. If this really 
were so — that Mr. Owen had spies at 


work — it affected their interests in a 
very grave manner. Geach began to 
come round to their way of thinking. 

“What possesses the man? — what 
does he do it for ? ” he asked, scarcely 
above his breath. 

“ Ah, what does he do it for ? ” re- 
peated Black, sueeringly. “ Why, to 
get me out o’ the Trailing Indian. 
Now that that girl of hisu’s married 
to Sir Dene’s son, of course he’s got 
his ear — ’twas only him that set the 
youn^ fellow on at me the time you 
know^ of : pretty broad hints, too, them 
he gave about the doings here ! Owen 
is a-plotting to get us out o’ the place ; 
nothing more nor nothing less.” 

Robson rubbed the moisture from 
his startled face. “ They might be 
down upon ye at any time. Black. 
He might ha’ come over that there 
night, folks helping him, and looked 
into the coffin. My patience ! What 
on earth should we ha’ done ? ” 

^‘‘Have ye heard much about it since, 
Randy ? ” resumed Geach. “ Had more 
questions asked ? ” 

“Never one — though I’ve waited for 
’em,” replied Black. “ Neither from 
Priar nor nobody else. They’ve got 
hold of the tale round the place, 
though, and call it Randy Black’s 
coffin. The mischief was, getting it 
away of a light night, you see j but 
’twas in a hurry : and who was to fear 
eyes would be in this lonely place at 
midnight? I wish Owen had been 
dead, I do, afore he had seen it ! ” 

“ But what’s to be done with the 
man?” demanded Geach, his ej’es 
ablaze with excitement. “We can’t 
submit to be watched in this way ; 
’twould be destruction : and we shall 
want the hearse again soon.” 

“ Hang him,” said Robson, quietly, 
by way of answer. “ ’Twouldn’t be no 
sin,” he defiantly added. “ Hanging’s 
the nat’ral punishment o’ spies. And 
he’s a spy, out and out.” 

Again the men looked at each other, 
very meaningly. The silence was broken 
by Black. 

“ He’d only get his deserts. . Trust 
me for one thing, both of you : Owen 
shall be out of Harebell Farm, afore he 
gets me out o’ the Trailing Indian.” 

Jonathan Drew’s sight had not de- 


THE MORNING DREAM. 


75 


ceived him ; neither had he taken any- 
thing to obscure it. The hearse had 
brought the coffin to the inn, deposited 
it inside the house, empty, and receiv- 
ed it again, filled, two hours afterwards. 
This hearse was in the habit of mak- 
ing periodical visits to the Trailing 
Indian, always at the ghostly hours 
of night. But — to relieve the reader’s 
feelings — it may as well be stated that 
it never took away a human occupant, 
alive or dead. Had the coffin been 
charged, and opened, hf Mr. Jonathan 
Drew that moonlight night, it would 
have been found to contain nothing 
worse than closely-packed layers of 
valuable lace, with some costly articles 
of jewelry wedged in between them. 

It was a sure and safe way of trans- 
porting articles to London, or elsewhere, 
which might not be sent in the broad 
light of day. Who would dream of 
suspecting a hearse, whether travelling 
along the highway by moonlight or 
sunlight ; or of searching the coffin 
inside it? Not even a Bow- Street 
runner. 


CHAPTER XI. 

THE MORNING DREAM. 

The bells of Hurst Leet church waft- 
ed their melodious sound up to Harebell 
Farm in the stillness of the Sabbath 
morning. When the wind set this way, 
their chimes could be heard distinctly. 
The thick mist of the previous night — 
when Mr. Owen had walked to the two- 
acre meadow and seen the men stealing 
up Harebell Lane on their way to the 
Trailing Indian — had given place to a 
clear atmosphere. The air was bright, 
the sun shone, the skies were blue. 
Generally speaking, Hurst Leet bells 
only gave out a brief ding-dong, to show 
the world that it was Sunday; to-day 
they were ringing. It was the custom 
of Hurst Leet church at that period to 
administer the Sacragient four times in 
the year : at Christmas and Easter ; at 
Midsummer and Michaelmas. On these 
occasions the bells rang cheerily for a 
few minutes at early morning. This 
was Easter Sunday. 

Mary Barber was laying the cloth for 
breakfast when the bells broke out ; the 
sound caught her ear through the open 


window. She turned sharply round to 
look at the cuckoo clock against the wall. 
It wanted ten minutes to eight. 

I was sure it was behind,” she ex- 
claimed to herself testily. “ That clock 
is always getting itself slow now.” 

Robert Owen came down the stairs, 
before the words had well left her lips, 
and entered the room. Never was the 
man’s singular beauty more remarkable 
than on a Sunday morning ; when he 
was always dressed as a gentleman. 
He looked rather surprised not to see 
the breakfast laid : for the farm was 
punctual in its habits and sat down pre- 
cisely at eight on a Sunday*; on week 
days at seven. 

“ You be down to the minute, mas- 
ter,” was her greeting. “ And I be 
late.” 

It was so very unusual a thing for 
Mary Barber to be “ late ” that Mr. 
Owen slightly lifted his eyebrows at the 
acknowledgment. “ Your mistress is 
late too,” he observed, “ and will not be 
down for some minutes. She has had a 
bad night.” 

“ What I did was to drop asleep just 
as I ought to have been getting up,” 
said Mary Barber. “ I have had a bad 
night too — in one sense: and I’ve a 
great mind to tell you, master, wliyP 

Her manner, as she said it, was very 
peculiar. Mr. Owen, who had gone to 
the open window and w'as listening to 
the bells, turned and looked at her. 

“I have had an ugly dream, master. 
Two dreams in one, as may, be said; for 
I woke between ’em ; and then went to 
sleep and dreamed it on again. ’Twas 
about you.” 

Mary Barber was superstitious in the 
matter of dreams. She did not have 
them often. Very rarely. It must be 
confessed that two or three times in her 
life her dreams had appeared to fore- 
shadow coming events — events that af- 
terwards happened. When a young 
woman, she had dreamed of the death 
of her father, and told the dream : some 
few days subsequently, his death, which 
was quite unexpected, took place. 

Robert Owen smiled. He was one of 
the least superstitious men living : 
would as soon have put faith in a ghost 
as a dream. 

“ Yes, sir,” she said, the smile some- 
what nettling her, “ I know how you’ll 


76 


DENE HOLLOW. 


ridicule all I say. But I think IM bet- 
ter say it, for all that. There’s some ill 
in store for you, master ; so take care of 
yourself.” 

Is the ill ghostly or bodily ? ” he 
rejoined. And Mary Barber did not 
like the evident 'mockery, good natured 
though it was. 

Bodily, I should imagine,” was the 
half defiant answer, as the tea-spoons 
were rattled into the saucers. “ Listen 
to me while I tell you, master,” she 
added ; “ it will be off my conscience.” 

“ You had better be quick about it 
then, or you will have your mistress 
down,” he said in resignation. “It 
may be as well not to tell dreams to her, 
if they are ugly ones.” 

She finished putting the things in 
their places on the cloth, and then stood 
by the side of the table, facing him. 
Mr. Owen was at the open window still, 
listening to the bells. 

“ Master, I thought in my sleep that 
it was to-day dawning ; this very same 
Easter Sunday that is. All of us here 
seemed to be in a peck o’ trouble ; in 
great distress : and it was about you. 
You had to go somewhere : I don’t 
know why or wherefore. It seemed to 
us that if you did go, some awful ill 
would come of it ; ill to you ; we knew 
that it would ; and yet there seemed no 
help for it ; never a thought crossed one 
of us to say Don’t go. It seemed just 
one o’ them things that must be, that’s 
as sure as night or day ; there was no 
question of passing it. We were in 
frightful distress ; it was worse than 
any we can ever feel in this world; 
sharper and more real. Dreams are 
vivid ; I often think they picture things 
a bit like what they’ll be in heaven, 
that is, when we shall no longer see 
through a glass darkly. There was 
never such distress in this house, mas- 
ter, as w^e seemed to be in then, and be- 
cause you had to go : it was just a keen 
anguish. The whole lot of us were cry- 
ing bitterly.” 

“ What do you call the ^ whole lot ? ’ ” 
questioned Bobert Owen, as she paused. 

“ I don’t know. I think my missis 
and the young lasses were here ; I know 
it was home ; this farm, these rooms ; 
and several of us stood about. The only 
face I clearly remember was Joan’s : she 
was sitting down on that chair by the 
ironing-board in the kitchen, her hands 


clasped on her linsey apron, and her eyes 
hot and red with tears. Nobody but you 
seemed to be unconcerned, master.” 

“ Oh, I did, did I ? ” 

“ You were moving about among us ; 
I saw you more than once. But you 
seemed not to notice us, and not to feet 
any of the trouble that we all felt. 
‘ When’s the master going ? ’ I said to 
Joan ; and I woke before she had time 
to answer.” 

“ Is that all ? ” cried the master, far 
more absorbed By tbe bells whose sound 
he loved, than by the tale. 

“ No, master ; it’s not all. I woke up 
with the distress, as it seemed, and I 
thought to myself what a strange dream. 
I wondered what the time o’ night was, 
and got up and looked from the window. 
Dawn was just a glimmering, and I saw 
the mist had cleared. I got into bed, 
dropped asleep, and was in the dream 
again. The same dream, master ; it 
seemed to go on just as if I’d never w’oke. 
Joan was standing b}- tlie same chair, 
not sitting then, and she was cleaned 
now, and had got her best tilings on. 
But you were gone, master : and I saw, 
as plainl}^ as ever I could see awake, her 
red and swollen eyes. The house seemed 
to be in the same awful distress as be- 
fore — it couldn’t be worse — and we never 
could feel it like that in life. We all set 
off to look for you, master, a great lot of 
us, it was, but we knew in our hearts 
that, look as we would, you would never 
again come back to us : we knew it as 
certainly as we can know anj^thing in 
this world. All the same, we ran, cry- 
ing sadly ; some went up the lane, and 
some went over the fields, and some 
hadn’t got beyond the fold-yard : but all 
of us bearing off for the same point, as 
it were : and all a looking for you.” 

“ Which point ? The moon ? ” 

“ The Trailing Indian,” she answ’ered, 
too much wrapt in her tale to resent the 
words. “ At least, it was that direction 
we all seemed to be making for. I was 
one o’ them in the lane, and I awoke 
with the running. This clock w'as strik- 
ing half-after five, master ; and I sat up 
on end in bed, and asked myself what 
the strange dream could mean. The 
tears stood in my eyes, and the sweat 
was on my brow, with the sorrow and 
the running. I’ve never hardly had 
such a life-like dream as that.” 

( Mr, Owen made no answer. 


THE MORNING DREAM. 


77 


“ I lay a thinking what it could mean. 
Then I went and called Joan, for ’twas 
time ; and, after that, 1 lay thinking 
again. Just as I ought to have got up, 
I dropped asleep : and that has made us 
late, master.” 

Mr. Owen bent his ear to catch the 
last chime of the bells. To him they 
were as of the sweetest melody. 

“ And, master, I’m not able to tell 
you w^hat it means, though it has never 
been for a minute out o’ my thoughts 
since I got up. But, as sure as can be, 
it forebodes some ill for you.” 

“ The bells have finished,” said Mr. 
Owen, as the vibration of their sound 
was dying slowly away. “ Mary, woman, 
I’d not let a foolish dream disturb me, if 
I were you.” 

“ I know that it makes just as much 
impression upon you, sir, as if I’d said 
I had read it in the newspaper,” re- 
turned Mary Barber tartly. “ But I’ve 
told it you ; and my conscience is, so 
far, at ease : and I’d say further, take 
what care you can of yourself. That’s 
all, master.” 

She whisked out of the room, brought 
in a dish of ham, and set it on the table 
with a dash. Mr. Owen had his prayer- 
book in his hand, looking out the proper 
psalms for the Easter service. 

“ Master, what ails Mr. George Arde 
and his wife, that they can’t come over 
to-day for their Easter dinner ? re- 
sumed Mary Barber in a different tone, 
for she had done with the other subject 
for good. Our chiscakes ’ill be good 
enough for gentlefolks, I’ll answer for’t.” 

“ Cheesecakes ! — it is not a question 
of cheesecakes,” he answered, with a 
sigh. Polly is not strong enough to 
come. Unless I am mistaken, this is the 
last Easter she’ll see in this world.” 

‘‘Perhaps if she’d make an effort, 
master, she might ha’ got here,” sug- 
. gested Mary Barber in a softer tone — for 
the answer somewhat appeased the re- 
sentment she was feeling against things 
generally, and especially against herself 
for having dropped asleep when she 
ought to have got up. “ Our chiscakes 
is beautiful, this Easter : and Miss Polly 
always was fond of ’em. The baby 
might ha’ pecked a bit, too. Miss Maria 
never cared for ’em as Miss Polly did.’^ 

“ W e must send her some, Mary Bar- 
ber.” 


“Ay, master, that us will. I don’t 
like to hear of her getting worse. At 
Christmas she looked like nothing but a 
drooping snowdrop. Tom was enough to 
go, without ” 

“ Hush ! — here’s your mistress,” was 
the warning interruption. 

Mrs. Owen entered ; and not a word 
more was spoken on either of the two 
subjects that master and maid had just 
then at heart : she the dream : he, his 
daughter’s failing strength. Mrs. Owen 
was in too delicate health herself to be 
troubled unnecessarily. 

Again Robert Owen staid to partake 
of the Sacrament after morning service ; 
and again Mrs. Owen (she was in the 
habit of staying), and the parson equally 
wondered. Geoffry Clanwaring and his 
wife also staid — for the first time to- 
gether. Sir Dene was in his pew as 
usual ; but afforded himself no oppor- 
tunity of speaking to Geoffry and 
Maria. He always came out of church 
when the congregation, including his 
son and daughter-in-law, had departed. 

Things were going on quietly between 
Sir Dene and Geoffry. They met fre- 
quently on business matters, and Sir 
Dene seemed cordial : now and then he 
would say, “How’s your wife, Geoff?” 
But Geoffry had not been invited to take 
a meal at Beechhurst since that lunch- 
eon already told of: his visits there were 
confined to business ones in Sir Dene’s 
parlor. If any rare necessity brought 
Sir Dene to the Bailiff" s lodge, he would 
shake hands with Maria, and speak 
very kindly. • 

Sir Dene wasfalone this Easter. John 
Clanwaring had sent a wordy excuse for 
not quitting London. The heir was en- 
gaged to be married now, and his ladye- 
love had claims on his time. Geoffry, 
know’ing all this, had wondered whether 
Sir Dene might open his heart and in- 
vite him and his wife to partake of din- 
ner at Beechhurst. But nothing of the 
kind took place. 

They went up to dine at Harebell 
Farm, and staid there the rest of the 
day. Maria was grievously disappointed 
not to meet her sister. 

“Is Polly so much worse that she 
could not come, mamma ? ” she asked. 

“ I don’t think it’s exactly that,” said 
Mrs. Owen. “She is very weak and 
delicate, you know j but I suppose she 


78 


DENE HOLLOW. 


could have come. George Arde has a 
bad cold, your father says ; nearly laid 
up with it. They have a fresh nurse- 
girl, too. Polly had to send away the 
other.’^ 

Yes, Mr. Owen, to his wife, had put 
the non-coming for the Easter dinner 
upon any trivial excuse, rather than the 
true one — Mary Arde’s fading life. 
And so the cheesecakes were eaten with- 
out them, and the day passed. 

The night was bright, quite different 
from the previous one; it was almost as 
light as day. When Geoffry Clanwar- 
ing and his wife were departing after 
supper, Mr. Owen put on his cap to 
walk payt of the way with them. 

“I should think that cap of yours 
will never wear out, pa^?” aaucily ob- 
served Maria. ^ * 

“ It does not get fresher,” returned 
Mr. Owen; “but it is good for a cold 
night, lass.” 

This cap had been a standing joke 
with Pobert Owen’s daughters. It was 
of sealskin, originally bought for travel- 
ing; was expensive and considered very 
handsome, in accordance with the taste 
of the day. A year or two ago, when 
it yas growing worn and shabby, Mr. 
Owen had taken it into night use : one 
evening, in standing over the candle to 
read a letter, the front of it had got 
woefully singed ; burnt, in fact, Mary 
Barber, who never would see anything 
wasted that could possibly be used, edged 
it round with some white fleecy fur. It 
rendered it more comfortable than be- 
fore : but certainly notMore ornamental ; 
for it made one think ^'^a magpie. 

“ Robert, won’t you put your great , 
coat on ? ” asked Mrs. Owen, as she 
followed them to the outer door. 

. “ I think I will,” he an-swered, turn- 

ing back to take it from the peg. “ The 
air is frosty.” 

She stood a minute at the door watchr- 
ing them along the path that led round 
to the side of the house, Maria arm-in- 
arm with her husband ; Mr. Owen but- 
toning his coat, his favorite stick in his 
hand. A chill seemed to take her and 
run right through her frame ; she has- 
tily shut the door and returned to the 
fire. 

“ What be you shivering at, missis ? ” 
questioned Mary Barber. 

“It is cold at that open door,” an- 


swered Mrs. Owen. “ I have felt a lit- 
tle shivery all the evening. This best 
parlor is not half as 'warm as the other.” 

It w'as then ten o’clock. Mary Bar- 
ber, busy in the kitchen, helping Joan to 
put things straight, did not come in again 
for nearly an hour. Mrs. Owen had 
dropped into a doze over the fire, and 
woke up with a start. 

“ Dear me I I was asleep. What’s 
the time, Mary ? ” 

“ Hard upon eleven, missis.” 

“ Hard upon eleven ! ” echoed Mrs. 
Owen. “ Why, where can the master 
be ? He must have gone all the way 
with them.” 

“ It’s a rare fine night,” responded 
Mary Barber — as if tacitly implying 
that the fact might have tempted her 
master on. 

Mrs. Owen put the Bible on the table 
against her husband should come in. 
Mary Barber sat down on the other side 
the fire ; and they waited on, talking of 
various things. Joan wanted a whole 
afternoon’s holiday on the morrow — and 
a “whole” afternoon dated in Joan’s 
vocabulary from one o’clock in the day. 
Mary Barber did not approve of Mrs. 
Owen’s having consented to Joan’s tak- 
ing it; and said so. The cuckoo clock 
struck half-past eleven. 

“ Why, where can he be ? ” exclaimed 
Mrs. Owen. 

Wondering did not bring an answer. 
The time went on to- twelve. Mrs. 
Ow’^n was in a state of great surprise 
then, somewhat of alarm. 

“ Mary, do you think he can be staj^- 
ing all this while at Maria’s ? ” 

“Hot unless him and Mr. Geoffry 
Clanwaring have got smoking a pipe 
together, missis. And that’s not over 
likely.” 

“But, even if they had, the master 
would not stay all this while.” 

The house was very still : nothing to 
be heard but the ■ ticking of the cuckoo 
clock, that came faintly through the 
open door of the other parlor. Joan 
was in bed and asleep, recruiting herself 
against the morrow’s pleasures ; Parkes, 
the man who slept in -doors, was 
also in bed. The clock ticked on for 
another half-hour ; and with every min- 
ute Mrs. Owen’s uneasiness grew 
greater. 

“ Mary, it will soon be one,” she said 


THE MORNING DREAM. 


79 


in excitement. It is not possible but 
that something must have happened to 
him ! Perhaps he has fallen down 
somewhere and hurt himself.” 

“ The best thing, missis, for you to do, 
is to go to bed ! ” 

“ Go to bed ! Nonsense, Mary. I 
could not sleep if I did. You must call 
Parkes ; and let him go out and look 
for his master.” 

“ It’ll take more time and trouble to 
waken Parkes than to go myself,” was 
Mary Barber’s answer. “ Once that 
man gets asleep, there’s no rousing him 
till work-time i’ the morning, /’ll go, 
missis.” 

If a thought crossed Mrs. Owen that 
she should feel very lonely all alone, she 
suppressed it. Mary Barber was even 
then putting on her bonnet and warm 
cloak. Her mistress flung a shawl over 
her shoulders, and went with her to the 
corner of the house where she could see 
the fold-yard. They both listened for a 
minute, hoping to hear footsteps : but 
not a sound broke the night’s stillness. 

“ Take the open road down Dene 
Hollow, Mary. That’s the way he’d 
come up : perhaps you may meet him.” 

Now it is a positive fact, and one often 
spoken to by Mary Barber afterwards, 
that with the relating of the dream to 
her master in the morning, it had gone 
out of her memory. What with the 
preparation of the good cheer, deemed 
necessary for Easter Sunday and for the 
visit of Mr. Geoffry Clanwaring and his 
wife, and with the scuffle, it was, to get 
out to afternoon service herself, and to 
let Joan get out ; in short, what with the 
bustle of the day altogether, Mary Bar- 
ber’s mind had been fully occupied, and 
she had not once remembered the dream. 
Never at all. As she crossed the stile 
into Harebell Lane, some night bird flew, 
with a cry, across the trees higher up, 
its wings making a great rush and 
whirr. 

“That’s. a owl,” thought Mary Bar- 
ber, turning her face full towards the 
sound. “ I hate them owls.” 

All at once, in that moment, as she 
stood gazing up the lane, the dream 
came flashing into her memory. Just as 
it had been in the dream, so it was now 
in reality — Mr. Owen was missing and 
being looked after. Only, in the dream 
there had been a good many of them 


looking, and here it was but herself. So 
intensely did the fact — nay, the fear — 
come home to Mary Barber, that her 
arms dropped by her side as if a weight 
had pulled them. 

With a feeling of certainty, that no 
persuasion could have shaken, — with a 
dread fear that seemed to catch her 
heart and hold it, — with a shivering sen- 
sation that perhaps she had never in her 
life, save once, experienced, the conviction 
crossed her that it was in that upward 
direction she ought to search, not the 
other. And Mary Barber had all but 
started up the lane at the top of her 
speed. 

But, even with the most superstitious 
and fanciful, common sense must, and 
does, in- a d^ree exert its sway. It told 
Marj'- Barbe]?' that there would be no 
reason in looking for her master in the 
opposite direction to that he had been 
bound upon. There was nothing, abso- 
lutely nothing, likely to have taken him 
up Harebell Lane, especially when he 
had been going the other way. But, 
had she started as impulse led her, it 
would have been the very exemplification 
of her dream — when she and others had 
been flying along the lane ; for what 
particular point she knew not, only that 
it was in the direction of the Trailing 
Indian. 

“ It’s very odd,” she said to herself 
with a sigh, as she turned about the 
other way — and her heart felt like a 
lump of lead. “ How was it I forgot the 
dream all day long ? — and why should it 
ha’ come rushing over me as I looked up 
the lane at the cry of that bird ? Was 
it the sight o’ the lane brought it back, 
I wonder ? But what’s odder than all 
the rest, is the fact that master should 
be missing as he was in the dream ; and 
that I should ha’ come out after him.” 

Very quickly she went on now; not 
exactly with a run, but at a sharp walk- 
ing trot that was faster. Under the 
park walk of Beechhurst Dene went 
she, turning off opposite its front gates, 
down the smooth road of Dene Hollow, 
so cold and white in the frosty moonlight. 
A few minutes brought her to the bail- 
iff’s lodge, Geoffry Clan waring’s humble 
residence now. 

That Mr. Owen was not linger- 
ing there, appeared pretty evident ; the 
house was closely shut up, its upper cur- 


80 


DENE HOLLOW. 


tains drawn. By dint of knocking for a 
few minutes, Mary Barber succeeded in 
arousing Geofiry Clanwaring. He opened 
bis chamber wiudow, and looked out. 

“ Is the master here, sir ? asked 
Mary, standing back against the shrubs 
to look up. 

“ What’s it you, Mary Barber ? ” he 
exclaimed. Your master ? No, he is 
not here. Why did you think he 

W'US ? ” 

‘‘Didn’t he come here, sir, with you 
and Miss Maria ? ” 

“ No. He came with us as far as the 
new road ; and then turned back. He 
said he was going to look at a sick cow : 
Ligbtfoot, I think he called it.” 

Maria’s head appeared beside her hus- 
band’s shoulder. .A thought had struck 
her. 

“ Is mamma taken ill, Mary Bar- 
ber ? ” 

“ Not she,” returned Mary Barber. 
“ Why should you think that. Miss 
Maria ? ” For Mary rarely gave the 
young lady her new matronly title ; the 
other was more familiar. 

“ Then why should you have come 
after papa ? What is it that’s the mat- 
ter ? ” 

“There’s nothing the matter, except 
that he has not come home.” 

“ Oh, is that all,” returned Maria, 
carelessly : and neither she nor her 
husband appeared to have an idea that 
it was so late. Suddenly aroused from 
sleep, they were naturallj- confused. 
“ Then why need you have come ? ” re- 
peated Mrs. Clanwaring. 

Mary Barber possessed a large share 
of prudent reticence. It occurred to 
her that she need not further alarm this 
young girl — who was not altogether in 
strong health — by saying all she feared. 
“We got a wondering where the master 
could be stopping. Miss Maria — and 
^ your mamma wanted to go to bed,” she 
said. “ That’s why I come.” 

“ W'ell, I hope you have liked your 
w’alk — and you’ve given me a fright 
besides. Good night, Mary ; I wish 
you a pleasant ramble back again.” 

“ Mr. Owen is sure to have been with 
Ligbtfoot,” added Geoffry. “ You will 
find him at home when you get back. 
Good inght.” 

He closed the window ; and Mary 
Barber turned slowly away, the weight 


at her heart ten times greater. Had 
Ligbtfoot been dead or dying, he would 
not have stayed with the animal all that 
while. An awful prevision lay on Mary 
Barber — that he was dead. He, her 
master. 

It had been calm and still as she went 
down, but now a breeze had arisen ; 
stirring gently the branches of the trees, 
passing through them with a slight 
moan. The shadows played on the 
white road up Dene Hollow : Mary Bar- 
ber thought of that other shadow that 
her mother professed to have seen, and 
shivered a little as she passed the spot. 
What with the remembrances attaching 
to the road, and this present midnight 
dread, things looked to her a little 
ghastly. 

A quick, firm step on the upper path. 
Mary Barber heard it, and her heart 
leaped with hope. But it proved not to 
be her master. It was Mr. Priar. 
They met at the corner opposite Sir 
Dene’s lodge. The surgeon looked 
thunderstruck at seeing her. 

“ Why, Mary Barber ! What brings 
you abroad here at this hour ? ” 

A brief, mutual explanation ensued. 
Mr. Priar was on his way from the 
Trailing Indian, to wdiicli inn he had 
been summoned in desperate haste some 
few hours before. 

“ What on earth for ? ” demanded 
Mary Barber. “ Who’s ill ? ” 

He told her who — as well as his 
knowledge of facts allowed him. That 
afternoon a comely young woman, foot- 
sore and tired with w'alking, made her 
unexpected appearance at the inn door, 
in search of Mr. Michael Geach, whose 
wdfe she announced herself to be. 
Geach went into a tow'ering passion, 
abused her for coming after him, and 
ordered her away again. She refused 
to go ; and a general quarrel ensued. 
What with the fatigue, and the excite- 
ment of the quarrel upon it, the young 
woman was taken ill. Her symptons 
grew serious ; Mr. Priar was sent for, 
and arrived in time to usher an infant 
into the world. 

“ Well, I’m sure ! ” cried Mary Bar- 
ber, when she had listened to tbo story. 
“ Geach ? — Geach ? I’ve heard that 
name afore now.” 

“ He is an acquaintance of Black’s,” 
said Mr. Priar. “ Some loose lellow'. 


AT THE TRAILING INDItlN 81 


who appears by fits and starts at the 
Trailing Indian.” — ^ — 

Is the young woman his wife ? ” 

Mr. Priar gave his mouth a twist, 
clearly distinguishable in the moonlight. 

If required to produce her marriage 
^ lines,’ 1 fancy she might have some 
difficulty in doing it,” said he. “ Black 
turned virtuous over it, I hear : he is 
annoyed that she should be laid up 
there. She is very ill, poor thing.” 

Did you see my master at the Trail- 
ing Indian ? ” resumed Mary Barber. 
“ Or in the lane as you came along it ? ” 

“No. I should hardly be likely to 
see him at the Trailing Indian. As to 
the lane, it seemed more lonely than 
ever to-night, as if not a soul had been 
in it for ages.” 

He was making a movement to pass 
on, naturally wanting to get home to 
rest. Mary Barber put her hand on his 
arm and detained him. 

“ James Priar” — she had called him 
so before in solemn moments : and this 
seemed to be one of the most solemn 
she had ever passed — “ there’s a feeling 
upon me that some great ill has hap- 
pened to the master. I think he is 
dead.” 

“ Dead ! Mr. Owen ? ” 

With the moon shining right upon 
her face, Mary Barber disclosed her 
reason for saying this, and related her 
dream, regardless of the wondering stare 
that Mr. Priar fixed upon her. As she 
went on, speaking very earnestly, the 
incredulous surprise on his countenance 
gave place to a kind of concerned per- 
plexity. Perhaps he was somewhat 
superstitious himself. 

“ Tha£s why I asked you, James 
Priar, whether you had seen him up 
there. Because in the dream we seemed 
to know it was the right place to search 
for him in — somewhere toward the 
Trailing Indian.” 

‘‘ I’ve neither seen sign of him, nor 
heard news of him,” was the answer. 
“ If Geoffry Clanwaring tells you he 
was going to see the sick cow, no doubt 
that’s where he went to.” 

“ But he’d not stay in the cow’s shed 
all this while.” 

“ You don’t know. Possibly, he found 
the animal worse, and may have gone 
after Cole the farrier. It’s not unlikely, 
Mary.” 

5 


This idea had not struck Mary Bar- 
ber. It was certainly possible. 

“ Yes, yes ! ” said the surgeon hastily. 
“Por goodness sake don’t let your mind 
run on those other dismal thoughts. 
You’ll find him all right when jmu get 
home.” 

She slowly shook her head, in spite 
of the faint hope that arose within her ; 
and they parted. “I might think it,” 
she said, “ but for my dream. ’Twas a 
morning dream : and them morning 
dreams come true.” 


CHAPTER XII. 

AT THE TRAILING INDIAN. 

“ Is he come home ? ” was Mary 
Barber’s first question, as she burst 
into the farm. And Mrs. Owen 
caught hold of her as if it were 
pleasant to find herself again in com- 
panionship. The past hour had been 
worse than solitary. 

Robert Owen had not come home. 
There were no tidings of him within, 
'anymore than without. Mary Barber 
mentioned the suggestion offered by 
Mr. Priar. 

“ There’s nothing in it, missis, as I 
believe,” she said. “But I’ll rouse up 
Parkes, and make him go with me to 
the shed. If we see nothing o’ the 
master, we’ll come back down the hill 
to Cole’s.” 

'After a considerable amount of shak- 
ing and thumping, Mr. Parkes, a thick- 
headed rustic of twenty, was aroused, 
and he and Mary Barber started off 
across the fields. The night was so 
light that they could distinguish 
every feature of the wa}^ clearly ; 
almost every blade of the sprouting 
grass. 

“ I see the master to-night a going 
on to the shed,” suddenly cried Parkes : 
who had a round crop of red hair, and 
kept a few steps behind Mary Barber. 

She turned her face and her tongue 
short upon him. “ You see the master 
going on to the shed ! ” she repeated 
in a tone of dispute. “What do you 
mean by that, Parkes ? ” 

“ So I did,” said Parkes. And he 
proceeded to explain how it had hap- 
pened. Parkes had spent the after- 


82 


DENE HOLLOW. 


Doon at his mother’s — who lived two 
or three miles away, on the high road 
that crossed the upper end of the lane 
near the Trailing Indian — and came 
back later than, he ought to have come. 
Jumping over the stile opposite the inn, 
he crossed the first field to the two-acre 
meadow. There he suddenly saw his 
master come round the narrow path 
between the fence and the grove, just 
above Harebell Pond. Not caring to 
be seen — for the' rule was that he 
should be at home earlier — Parkes 
sheltered himself under the hedge, 
saw the master strike across the field 
towards, the cow-shed, and then made 
onwards as fast as his legs would carry 
him. 

“ What time was this ? ” questioned 
Mary Barber, when she had heard the 
confession. 

“ Blest if I can tell a’zactl}’-,” re- 
plied the young man. “ I know ’twere 
a sight a’ter ten.” 

Therefore it appeared certain, from 
this testimony, tliat Mr. Owen, after 
parting with Geoifry Clanwaring and 
Maria, had gone straight on to the cow- 
shed, through his fields. “ But you 
must have been a fool, .not to show 
yourself and bear him company as you 
were there, Parkes,” cried Mary Bar- 
ber, who liked nothing better in life 
than keeping the youth in order. 

They passed round the narrow path, 
so often mentioned, between the grove 
and the fence — Mr. Parkes taking a 
temporary recreation by catching up a 
clod of earth and dropping it over into 
Harebell Pond. It was the nearest 
way into the two-acre meadow, cutting 
ofi:' the width of a wide field. 

The shed was there, and the cow was 
there, all right and comfortable : but 
Kobert Owen was not. No sign, even, 
was seen to tell that he had been : but 
of course it was not to be expected. 

“Let’s go and have just a look at 
the Trailing Indian,” cried Mary Bar- 
ber. 

Parkes tramped off after her, over 
the stile, and across the field to the 
other stile, opposite the Trailing Indian. 
All still and quiet lay the house in the 
moonbeams ; closely shut up there 
was not so much as a light visible to 
indicate the chamber of the sick WuOman 
told of by Mr. Piiur. 


“ We’ll take the way o’ the lane 
back,” said Mary Barber, “ and go on 
straight to Cole’s.” 

It was just possible her master might 
have fallen somewhere, she thought, 
might be lying still, and so escape the 
eyes of Mr. Priar, who said the lane 
was empty. She kept hers wide open, 
looking well to the banks on either 
side : and looking fruitlessly. Parkes 
flung another clod into the pond as he 
passed it, bestirring its green and slimy 
waters. It took more time to knock-up 
the farrier than it had Geoflry Clan- 
waring. But the man had not seen 
Mr. Owen. 

A more miserable morn than that 
dawning on Harebell Farm could not 
well be imagined. Do what , she would, 
bring any confuting argument to bear 
against the impression, any amount of 
sober reasoning, Mary Barber was un- 
able to divest herself of the conviction 
that some untoward fate had overtaken 
her master, or of the notion that the 
Trailing Indian and its inmates had 
something to do with his disappearance. 
She started off for the inn as early as 
she thought it would be astir, her foot- 
steps brushing the dew from the grass. 
The side door of the house was open ; 
she entered without knocking, and pen- 
etrated to the kitchen. The kettle was 
singing away on the sway over the 
fire ; and Mrs. Black, kneeling down 
before the hearth, was raking the dust 
from the cinders into the purgatory. 
A tea-pot and caddy stood on the table. 

“ Where’s my master ? ” sharply 
demanded Mary Barber. 

Mrs. Black started up as though she 
had been shot. By the white hue her 
face changed to, certainly telling of 
terror, Mary thought the woman must 
be taking her for an apparition. There 
was a minute’s silence. * 

“ Who did you ask for, please ? ” 
then questioned Mrs. Black in her close, 
meek way. 

“ I asked for my master : Mr. Owen 
of Harebell Farm. That’s what I’ve 
come for.” 

“ But I don’t know anything of him,” 
returned the woman, after a pause, and 
in what appeared to be very genuine 
surprise. “ He is not here.” 

“ Didn’t he come here last night — say 


AT THE TRAILING INDIAN. 


83 


at half-after ten, or so ? ” pursued Mary 
Barber, hazarding the question. 

“ Not that I saw ; not that I know of. 
I think the house was shut up afore 
that.” 

“ He went to the two-acre meadow 
about that time, to see a sick cow. We 
be a thinking that he might ha^ come 
on here : perhaps for something or other 
that he wanted.” 

The landlady gave her head a shake, 
as if hardly understanding. “I’ll ask 
the ostler if you like,” she said. “ I 
wasn’t about here last night, myself: 
we’ve got a sick woman up-stairs.” 

“ I feel as sure in my heart that the 
master come on here as though I’d seen 
him come, Mrs. Black.” 

“ Well, he might, in course,” admit- 
ted Mrs. Black, after a pause given to 
the consideration of the matter. “ I 
can’t say : but Joe’ll be here in a min- 
ute or two.” 

Mary Barber sat down without being 
asked. Mrs. Black finished her cinder 
job, and pushed the fender into its 
place.” 

“Where’s Black?” was Mary Bar- 
ber’s next curt question. 

“ He’s not up yet,” replied the land- 
lady. “ As for me, I’ve not been to 
bed.” 

Mary understood the reason — that she 
had sat up with the sick woman. “ I 
heard on’t,” she said. “How is the 
person ? ” 

“ Well, she’s bad enough.” 

A short silence ensued. Mary Bar- 
ber seemed impatient : the landlady 
stood waiting for the kettle to boil, and 
took occasional glances at her morning 
visitor. 

“ But I don’t understand why it is 
you’ve come asking about this,” she 
suddenly observed, the point striking 
her. “ Did IMr. Owen get home tipsy 
last night ? ” 

“ ffe get home tipsy ! ” was the indig- 
nant rejoinder. “That was never a 
failing of his. I wish he had though, 
tipsy or not tipsy. He never come 
home at all.” 

Mrs. Black lifted her eyes in surprise. 

“ Since the time when he went to 
that there cowshed last night, he has 
never been seen nor heard of. My belief 
is that he has been made away with.” 

The woman was in the act of putting 


a spoonful of tea into the tea-pot, as 
Mary Barber said this. The words 
seemed to strike her with a shock. Her 
hands shook so that she spilled the tea ; 
her face again turned ghastly. 

“ Why, what do you mean ? ” escaped 
her trembling lips. 

“ What I say,” sturdily replied Mary 
Barber. “ We have been abroad all 
night looking for the master, and he’s 
not to be found above ground. I fear 
he has been murdered.” 

“ Mercy upon us ! ” cried the woman 
aghast. 

It was evident that if the Trailing In- 
dian (according to Mary Barber’s theo- 
ry) knew anything of Robert Owen’s 
disappearance, its mistress did not. 
Gathering up the bits of tea from the 
table, and putting them into the pot 
with her trembling fingers, she was in 
the act of lifting the boiling kettle off 
the sway, when the ostler appeared, car- 
rying in two buckets of water from the 
well. 

“ This good lady’s come round to 
know if Mr. Owen at the farm called in 
here last night,” she meekly said, speak- 
ing in a sort of hurry. And the man 
gazed out at her with some questioning 
surprise in his eyes — perhaps at her 
white lips. 

“ Owen o’ the farm don’t never come 
here,” he briefly replied. 

“ I think he must ha’ come last 
night,” interposed Mary Barber, rising 
to address the ostler. “ We’ve not 
heard nor seen him since; he never 
come home.” 

“ He never come here,” said the man, 
stooping to pour the water from one of 
the buckets into a sort of portable cis- 
tern that stood away near a sink. 
“ What time was’t ? ” 

“Nigh upon half-after ten. May be 
quite that.” 

“And we was shut up afore ten 
struck.” 

“ That you warn’t,” retorted Mary 
Barber. “Dr. Friar never went away 
till one o’clock i’ the morning.” 

“ The house was shut up afore ten ; 
that I’ll swear to,” asserted the man. 
“ When Dr. Friar was ready to leave, I 
unlocked this here side door and let him 
out myself.” 

“ I told the good lady I thought so — 
that we was shut up early,” spoke the 


84 


DENE HOLLOW. 


hostess, who had kept her back turned, 
doing something at the fire. 

We had no callers o’ no sort i’ the 
place, last night,” resumed the ostler, 
taking up the other bucket. “ As to^ 
Owen at Harebell Farm, he w^arn’t in 
the habit o’ coming at all. If he’d been 
here last night, I should ha’ seen him.” 

Be you sure o’ that ? ” asked Mary 
Barber. 

I be. I’ll take my oath he was not 
anigh the place.” 

Mary Barber paused. “Was Black 
abroad last night ? ” 

“No,” replied the ostler, “he never 
went out at all. He was abed afore we 
shut up.” 

Apparently there w’as nothing to stay 
for. Mary Barber said good morning 
and went away, feeling that her errand 
had been a useless one. 

Before the sun was high in the heav- 
ens, the news had spread far and wide : 
Eobert Owen of Harebell Farm had 
mysteriously disappeared. Hurst Leet 
put itself into a commotion. The mere 
fact of his disappearance might not have 
excited a tenth part of the interest, but 
for the persistent assertion of Mary 
Barber, that he had been, in some way, 
“ made away with.” 

The testimony of Parkes, as to having 
seen his master on the previous night 
was confirmed, at least in a negative de- 
gree, by two individuals. Joan said 
that when Parkes got in “ late and all 
out o’ breath,” he told her he had nearly 
been “ dropped upon” by the master in 
the two-acre meadow. The other one 
w'as Gander, Sir Dene’s butler. Gander, 
returning home soon after ten, overtook 
Mr. Owen at the entrance to Harebell 
Lane, gave him the good night, and saw 
him turn in to his own gate. Therefore, 
no doubt whatever could rest on any 
mind that the farmer had proceeded, as 
w'as assumed, direct to the shed, on 
quitting his daughter and her husband. 
The question now was, what had become 
of him afterwards. 

Harebell Farm, that day, was like a 
fair. So many sympathizing friends and 
neighbors were flocking up to it. 
George Arde, who had come over from 
"Worcester on other matters, found it in 
this commotion. Geoffry Clanwaring 
was there ; also old Squire Arde. Mary 
Barber got these three to herself in the 


best parlor, and there related her dream. 
The once keen eyes of Squire Arde, 
watery now, twdnkled wdth merriment as 
he listened : to use Mary’s words, when 
Commenting on it later, he “stared and 
grinned in her face.” 

“ Mary, w'oman, I’d not set myself up 
for a laughing-stock if I was in your 
place ; the parish might be taking me 
for a nat’ral. Dreams, indeed ! ” 

But in spite of the old man’s ridicule, 
Mary Barber never wavered an iota in 
her asserted belief. Her master was 
dead, she said: she knew it by her 
dream. Dead, or else in some sore stress 
of plight that W'ould prevent his ever 
coming back again : she w^as certain he 
had seen hrs home for the last time. 

Though not given to be superstitious, 
her steady assertion in its persistent 
earnestness, made an impression upon 
the two listeners who may be said to 
have held the largest interest in the 
matter, as they were Mr. Owen’s sons- 
in-law : George Arde and Geoffry Clan- 
waring. They grew to think that he 
really might be dead. And then they 
asked themselves and each other, how 
— if this were so — his death had been 
accomplished. By accident, or by as- 
sault from without ? 

“ See here,” said Squire Arde, look- 
ing up from the chair where he sat — 
“ a’most as many accidents happen on 
a moonlight night as a dark un. Peo- 
ple’s eyes get deceived by the shadows. 
I should have the ponds dragged.” 

“ What ponds, sir ? ” asked George. 

“ Eh ? What ponds ? Why, any 
pond that lay in his wa 3 ^ There’s the 
one by the fold-yard here; the duck- 
pond ; and there’s the pond in the lane. 
Have ’em emptied — or dragged.” 

“ Should you think he could have fall- 
en in, sir ? ” returned George Arde in 
what he would have made a tone of 
mocking incredulity but that he was 
speaking to the Squire. 

“ I think he might have walked in,” 
was the answer. “ Yes, you young 
men with your young eyes ma.y stare to 
hear me say it ; but if you live to 
Eobert Owen’s age, you may find ’em 
cheat you. Did ye ever hear o’ one 
Squire Honeythorn, as lived at Beech- 
hurst Dene?” he quaintl}^ asked. And 
they smiled at the question. 

1 “ Well, one night, moonlight it was. 


AT THE TRAILING INDIA.N. 


85 


too, Hone3’tliorn, in walking home down 
Harebell Lane, walked right into the 
pond. He hadn’t had a single sup o’ 
drink ; don’t you two go a thinking that ; 
but he was getting in years and the 
shadows deceived his sight. I know a 
lady, too, as walked right into the Bir- 
mingham canal and thought it was part 
o’ the towing-path. Hardly saved, she 
was, either; some boatmen heard her 
cries as she was sinking. It might ha’ 
gone hard with Honeythorn, only a man 
on horseback happened to ride down the 
lane at the time. And that was me.” 

“If Mr. Owen walked into a pond, it 
must be the duck-pond here,” said 
George Arde. “ He did not go into 
Harebell Lane.” 

“ How do you. know he didn’t go ? ” 
retorted the Squire. 

“We don’t know, sir, any of us; but 
we may judge by probabilities.” 

“ I’d recommend jmu not to speak so 
positively, young man. ^ Probabilities ’ 
have let in older folks than j’ou afore 
now.” 

“ Well, sir, do you see any likelihood, 
yourself, of his having gone into the 
lane ? ” , 

“ No, I don’t,” candidly spoke Squire 
Arde. “ I only say he might ha’ gone. 
But there : let Harebell pond be. Try 
this un.” 

“ I do not fear the ponds,” interposed 
Geoffrj’’ Clanwaring, who had been in a 
deep reverie. “ Knowing the ground as 
Mr. Owen knew it, a bright night be- 
sides, it seems next door to an impossi- 
bility that any harm of that sort should 
come to him.” 

“ Master ’ud no more walk into a pond, 
whether by daylight or by moonlight, 
than I should walk into the middle o’ 
that fire ! ” cried Mary Barber, with a 
fling of her hand towards the grate. 
“ Squire Arde, it’s not there we must 
look for him.” ‘ 

“ Where then ? ” asked the Squire, 
noting the significance of the tone. 

“ I think — I think,” she slowly re- 
joined, as if not quite sure, herself — 
“that it’s up at the Trailing Indian. 
There has been a deal of ill-feeling on 
Black’s part to the master ever since w^e 
came to this farm : and I say that if 
harm has been done to him, it’s by the 
people thereP 

Th^t Black had accused Robert Owen 


of spying upon him, tney were all aware. 
The neighborhood knew so much as that. 
Also that Mr. Owen had emphatically 
denied any intentional spying on his own 
part. He had not looked out for the ill- 
doings of the Trailing Indian : when 
the}", or a suspicion of them, had come 
under his notice incidentally, he had not 
shut his eyes, but kept them open. That 
was all. 

Squire Arde administered a reproof. 
“ Mary Barber, there might ha’ been 
ill-feeling on Randy Black’s part to 
3"our master ; it’s like enough. But you 
shouldn’t go and say the man has mur- 
dered him.” 

“ I didn’t say it. Squire. I didn’t go 
as far in speech, whatever I might ha’ 
done in thought. Truth is, I don’t 
know what to think,” she continued, 
after a pause, “ my brain’s all in a 
muddle o’er it. If no harm has come 
to the master, where is he ? I should 
like to ask Black whether he’s alive or 
dead. When I was up at the Trailing 
Indian this morning, I couldn’t get to 
see him.” 

Every little item connected with the 
past night bore its own individual inter- 
est. • Geoffry Clanwaring mentioned 
that as he and his wife were walking 
home, Mr. Owen told them he had seen 
two suspicious-looking men stealing up 
Harebell Lane on the Saturday night, 
no doubt on their way to the Trailing 
Indian. Geoffry could have added, had 
George Arde not been present, that Mr. 
Owen changed the subject to speak of 
his daughter Marj" — saying he did not 
think she would be long in this world. 

“’T would do no harm if some on us 
went up and had a talk with Black,” 
said Squire Arde. “ There has been a 
sight of trampers and such-like ill-look- 
ing folk about latelv. If any of ’em 
set upon Farmer Owen last night in the 
two-acre meadow, sounds of it might ha’ 
been heard at the Trailing Indian. 
They’ve got a habit, them tramps, of 
creeping into sheds to sleep : may be, 
Owen found some in his. Let’s go.” 

Nothing loth were the two young men 
to accompany him to the inn, and they 
took their hats at once. In the fold- 
3"ard stood Gander. Geoffr}" Clanwaring 
stopped to accost him. 

“ You saw Mr. Owen last night, I 
hear. Gander.” 


86 


DENE HOLLOW. 


“Yes, sir; I overtook him i’ the lane 
yonder, as he was turning in at the gate 
here.” 

“ What passed ? ” 

“ Nothing to speak of,” was Gander’s 
ansv.er. “ I said ‘ Good night, sir,’ to 
him : ‘ Good night, butler,’ he answered 
back again. Tliat was all, Mr. Geoffry.” 

“ You did not hear anything of him 
afterwards ? ” Geoffry stayed to ask. 

“ No, sir; nothing.” 

“ Or see any strange men about ? ” 

“ Not a soul, sir.” 

Black stood in his yard, rubbing up 
the metal of some harness, when they 
reached the inn. It maj’^ as well be 
mentioned what was gathered, partly by 
the man’s own admissions, partly by the 
corroboration of others, of the doings on 
the Sunday at the Trailing Indian. 

In the course of the morning, while 
people were in church, the man named 
Bobson took his departure, he and Geach 
having lodged there on the Saturday 
night. Dinner was served at two 
o’clock : Black and Geach sitting down 
to it, Mrs. Black waiting on them. The 
meal was just finished, when a young 
W’oman arrived, a foot-traveller, who 
asked for Michael Geach and announced 
herself as his wife. Geach, astounded 
at the sight, met her with abuse and 
passion ; while Black, who had not 
before known there was a Mrs. Geach, 
abused Geach for letting her come : or, 
rather, for letting it be known, by her 
or anybody else, that he might be found 
at the Trailing Indian. Both the men 
had partaken plentifully of strong ale 
at dinner ; it tended to inflame their 
tempers, and they quarreled with each 
other. Quarreling is thirsty work ; it 
makes the throat dry ; and the men 
found it so. They quitted the ale for 
spirits, and soon got into a state of in- 
toxication. The ostler, in describing it, 
said thej" were only “half gone;” that 
is, they were not totally unable to talk 
or walk. During this time, Mrs. Geach 
fell ill, and was unable to depart, as 
ordered. What with that fresh annoy- 
ance, with the quarrel and the drink, 
Geach’s fury reached its climax. He 
betook him«elf off in his passion, 
mounted a public conveyance that hap- 
pened to be passing along the highwa}', 
and left Mrs. Geach to her fate and the 
hospitality of the Trailing Indian. 


That was about five o’clock. Blackj 
after swearing a little at things in 
general, sat down in the settle before 
the fire in what was called the parlor, 
and fell into a heavy sleep. He said 
that he never awoke from the sleep until 
Joe, the ostler, was shutting up the inn 
for the night, just before ten ; and then 
he went straight up to bed. The ostler 
said this also ; Mrs. Black said it. Be- 
fore this, the sick woman grew so ill 
that Mrs. Black became alarmed, and 
about eight o’clock dispatched the ostler 
for Mr. Briar. All agreed in these two 
important points — that Bobert Owen 
had not been to the inn ; or, so far as 
they saw, near it : and that none of the 
inmates of the inn had gone forth from 
it at all that evening, save the ostler on 
his errand. He, the ostler, returned to 
it with Mr. Briar, and did not quit it 
again. If this statement could be 
positively verified, it was quite certain 
that Black could have had nothing to do 
with the disappearance. 

He nodded to the three gentlemen 
civilly enough when they entered the 
yard, but kept on rubbing his harness. 
Frightfully ill, he looked, his complexion 
a kind of sallow whiteness, the effects 
probably of the intemperance. It was 
not often Black jdelded to the failing ; 
when he did, it was sure to pay him off 
the next day in a racking sick head- 
ache. 

“ Well, Black ? ” began Squire Arde, 
“ we’ve come up to have a word or two 
with you. Do you know anything of 
Mr. Owen ? ” 

Black grew suddenly whiter ; with an 
accession of sickness or of anger. He 
let the strap fall from his hand, and its 
buckle clicked against the stable door. 

“ Wbat I’d like to know, sir, is, why 
I should be asked it. I’m free to put 
that question, I suppose,” he added, his 
voice shaking with what seemed concen- 
trated passion. “ Here’s been folks 
coming up every hour o’ the day since 
morning light, asking me what I’ve done 
with Bobert Owen. That woman o’ 
their’n was here afore the house doors 
was undone. Why should I be bothered 
about Owen, more nor others ? ” 

“ For one thing, you are his nearest 
neighbor,^ Black,” was the Squire’s an- 
swer. “ For another, the last seen or 
known of Owen was in the two-acre 


AT THE TRAILING INDIAN. 


87 


mead over there, within a stone’s throw 
of 3’on.” 

“ There might be two hundred Owens 
over in that mead, and me never know 
it,” contended Black. 

“]\Ir. Owen was there — it has been 
ascertained — at about a quarter past ten 
last night, or from that to half past,” 
rather sternly interposed Geoffry Clan- 
waring. “ He has not been seen since. 
Do you know anything of him, Black ? ” 

“No, I don’t, sir,” replied Black, 
speaking with tolerable civility to his 
landlord’s son. “ Long afore that time, 
I was abed. Fact was, I got a drop too 
much inside me yesterday afternoon — 
and my head’s fit to split, through it, to- 
day,” he added, as if in apology for his 
sickly face. “ I fell asleep in the parlor 
and never woke nor stirred till bed-time. 
Joe disturbed me, shutting-to the shut- 
ters, and I went straight up to bed.” 

“ What time was that ? ” 

“'What time?” repeated Black. 
“ Joe knows more sure nor I do,” he 
added. “ ’Twasn’t ten.” 

“ It wanted ten minutes o’ ten,” inter- 
posed Joe, who was splashing awa^^ at 
the horse-trough close by, cleaning it out. 
^ We don’t often shut up till ten have 
struck ; but there warn’t no customers i’ 
the house nor none likely to come, and 
I thought I’d close. The master swore 
at me, saying jt warn’t time ; he was 
cross at bein’ woke up.” 

And jmu swore at hirn again, I sup- 
pose,” remarked Squire Arde. 

“ No I didn’t,” replied the ostler, in 
his stolid way. “When a man’s in his 
cups, he’s best let alone. He didn’t give 
no opportunity for’t, neither j he stumped 
right off to bed.” 

“ What strikes me’s this. Black,” said 
, the Squire — who* appeared to have quite 
forgotten the notion of any suspicion 
against Black. “ There’s a sight of ill- 
doing tramps about ; always is after a 
hard winter ; if any of ’em had crept 
into the cow-shed, and Owen found ’em 
there, he and they might have had a row 
together.” 

“ I never knowed so many o’ them 
tramps about as now,” returned Black, 
hastily and eagerly. “ Two bad uns was 
at the door on Sunday morning, fright- 
ening my missus, and begging for bread. 
They’d got just the look o’ cut-throats.” 

“ Ay,” nodded the Squire. Who 


knows but them same two laid up some- 
where flbout here till night, and set on 
Robert Owen? You might have heard 
the noise over here.” 

“ I warn’t likely to hear nothing,” 
answered Black. “ I fell asleep the 
minute after 1 got into bed: and when 
I’m in that stupid state my sleep’s heavier 
nor a top.” 

At this juncture, Mr. Priar appeared 
at the side-door, having come down stairs 
from paying a visit to the sick woman. 
They remained a few minutes longer 
talking, Black steadily persisting in his 
denial of having heard or seen anything 
of Mr. Owen ; and then they all turned 
to depart, including the doctor. 

Tiiere’s an old and good saying — Let 
well alone. Black did not allow it to 
govern him just then. Like many 
another zealous self-defender, he thought 
the more words he used, the better his 
cause might be served. 

“ I’ve not had a answer to my ques- 
tion, gentlefolk,” he began, arresting 
them as they were going out. “ What 
I’d like to know is, if there’s any cause 
for my being singled out to be badgered 
about Owen — what’s become of him, or 
what’s not ? ” 

Upon that, George Arde, who had 
been silent hitherto, contenting himself 
with looking and listening, turned to 
face the man, and told him of the bitter 
ill-feeling he was known to have cher- 
ished towards Mr. Owen. He spoke 
with open and rather stinging plainness 
of the suspected private ways of the 
Trailing Indian : not paricularising their 
nature (perhaps he could not) but allud- 
ing to them in a general manner, as “ ill- 
doings.” 

It put up Black’s temper. He was 
under no obligation to Mr. George Arde, 
or to his relative, the Squire, at his side, 
and he retorted warmlj^ 

Well, and he had had cause to feel 
‘bitter again Owen : though he had never 
molested him — nor thought o’ doing it — 
nor never had done it. He had got his 
own proper feelings, he hoped, though 
he was but an inn-keeper, and the farmer 
never ud let him alone. Didn’t Owen 
watch him continaly ? — warn’t he a spy 
upon him — didn’t he talk about him at 
Hurst Leet ? No ! says the gentleman 
afore him. No? One on ’em, at least, 
knew better nor that. Look at them 


88 


DENE HOLLOW. 


lies about the hearse that had stopped to 
bait at his house that night in the winter. 
Farmer Owen had set it about that it 
come to take away a corpse, and had 
sent Dr. Priar up to accuse him on’t. 
If— 

Mr. Priar lifted his arresting hand to 
command silence. “ Don’t be so fast, 
Black. Who told you Mr. Owen sent 
rue ? ” 

‘‘ Why, you did,” retorted Black — 
while the ostler stopped his splashing in 
the trough to listen. “ Didn’t you confess 
that the man stood o’ purpose at that 
stile, over there, and watched the hearse 
away? You know you did, sir.” 

“ I did not,” said Mr. Priar. “ I told 
you. Black, that the person was not 
watching purposelj’-, but saw it incident- 
ally in passing; I impressed this upon 
you as plainly as tongue can speak. 
And I most certainly never told you that 
the person was Mr. Owen.” 

“ I knew that without you telling me. 
Dr. Priar. There warn’t no need to 
mention names.” 

‘‘ But it was not Mr. Owen.” 

“ Not Mr. Owen ! It’s all very well 
for you to try to make me believe that 
now, sir,” added Black with a sneer. 

“ I tell you truth. Black : it was not 
Mr. Owen. The person who saw you 
was Jonathan Drew — lying disabled 
now, poor man. In riding past, he saw 
the hearse at the open door here, and 
drew up Dobbin by the stile to watch 
what came of it.” 

I can speak to its being Drew,” in- 
terrupted Squire Arde, “ for he gave me 
the history of it the next day from his 
bed. About the hearse, he talked, and 
all what he had seen brought out of the 
side door here, and shut into it. Don’t 
give your betters the lie to their faces. 
Bandy Black.” 

Band}" Black did not speak. He 
looked from the curious old man to the 
doctor, silently asking whether this were 
really true. So, at least, Mr. Priar in- 
terpreted it. 

“ You need not doubt. Black,” said 
the surgeon. “ It was in galloping 
aw"ay from the sight, down Dene Hol- 
low, that Drew’s horse threw him — and 
I wondered often at the time that your 
own common sense did not show you 
it could have been no one but Drew ; 
knowing, as you did, that he must have 


just rode past here. The first thing 
Drew did when I got him home that 
night was to tell me what he had seen. 
He concluded it was your wife that w'as 
put into the hearse ; so did I. And that 
is w'hat brought me up on the following 
morning.” 

Black’s lips parted to speak, and then 
closed again. In some w"ay or other the 
narrative was evidently making some 
great impression on him. 

Drew was mistaken,” he burst 
forth at length. “ He never saw it ; 
he couldn’t ha’ seen what w'as ne’er 
there to see. The hearse only stopped 
to bait ; ’twas never opened.” 

It is of no consequence now, one 
way or the other : the thing’s past and 
done with,” coolly rejoined Mr. Priar. 
“ Only don’t continue to fancy it was 
Mr. Owen ; he saw no more of the 
matter than I did. As it happens, I 
am in a position to testify that Mr. 
Owen never went out of his house that 
night. I was up there you remember; 
and we were all in distress about the 
little child. Mr. George Arde, here, can 
bear out what I say.” And George 
Arde nodded in confirmation. 

“ Ay, ay,” wound up the Squire. 
“Don’t you be fond o’ taking up 
wrong notions. Black, and then sticking 
to ’em i’ the teeth o’ people.” 

They turned without further speech 
to quit the yard. Black drew a long 
breath as he looked after them. “ You 
can finish the harness, Joe,” he said to 
the ostler : and went indoors. 

As they crossed the lane and the op- 
posite stile, Mr. Priar spoke to what had 
come under his own cognizance the pre- 
vious evening. It was past eight 
o’clock, he said, when the ostler, Joe, 
came to fetch him ; they both went 
back together to the Trailing Indian, 
reaching it about nine. Black was fast 
asleep at the corner of the settle : and 
Joe remarked that his master was 
“sleeping off some drink.” About a 
quarter before ten Mr. Priar went down 
stairs for something he wanted : Black 
was still asleep in the same place and 
position, and Joe was sitting by the 
kitchen fire. After that, Mr. Priar did 
not see Black again. It was quite pos- 
sible that the man might have gone up 
to bed before ten, as he asserted ; Mr. 
Priar could not say one way or the oth- 


AT THE TRAILING INDIAN. 


er, for he was shut np with Mrs. Black 
in the sick woman’s chamber. He did 
not think the ostler went out again : 
they had occasion to call two or three 
times for hot water and other things, 
and the man was always at hand to 
bring them up. When Mr. Friar came 
down to leave, an hour after midnight, 
the ostler was waiting up in the kitchen 
to let him out. Mr. Friar took half a 
glass of hot brandy and water before go- 
nig out, which Joe mixed. He stood 
by the kitchen fire and talked to Joe 
while he drank it : and he remembered 
that the man incidental!}’’ mentioned 
that his master had gone to bed before 
ten. 

All this tended to corroborate Black’s 
own statement : it certainly did appear 
that he could not have harmed, or helped 
to have harmed, Robert Owen. In 
passing the shed, they turned into it ; 
for curiosity’s sake, more than in expec- 
tation of making any discovery. Light- 
foot, recovering fast, was there, and 
turned her head to welcome them : but 
there was no sign that any struggle had 
taken place in it. In fact the undis- 
turbed litter spoke to the contrary. 

“ Whatever happened, must have hap- 
pened after he had paid his visit here,” 
there’s no doubt of it,” remarked Geof- 
fry Clanwaring, as they went out. 
‘‘ Farkes saw him making straight for 
the shed : bad he been molested before 
reaching it, the man could not have 
failed to have heard the cries. The door 
was found fastened too, just as Mr. 
Owen would leave it. Now then — let 
us see. He would naturally go straight 
back home again, knowing Mrs. Owen 
was waiting up. That would be across 
here” — stretching out his hand to the 
two-acre meadow, which lay green and 
smooth before them as they walked — 
round the narrow strip of path, and so 
across the fields home. It’s a pity the 
sheep are on the other side the farm this 
year,” he added ; had they been here 
the shepherd might have been about.” 

• Crossing the stile over to the narrow 
pathway, they traversed it slowly. It 
was very narrow : not possible for two 
to walk on it abreast; the fence, a low 
one, lay on their right as they walked ; 
their left shoulders brushed the trees. 
In length it might have been twenty 
yards j not more. In the middle of it 


89 

Squire Arde stopped and looked over at 
the pond in the lane underneath. 

“ Ah,” said he, if Owen had been 
a going through the lane i’stead o’ up 
here, I should say he had mistook his 
way amid them rushes, and walked in- 
to the pond.” 

“ But don’t jmu think, sir, even had 
such a thing happened, that he would 
have been able to get out of it again ? ” 
spoke Mr. Clanwaring. 

“ Like enough : some might and 
others mightn’t,” answered the old 
man. What’s this ? ” 

He had his back against the fence 
now, glancing at the brushwood that 
grew amidst the tree-trunks immedi- 
ately in front of where he stood. It 
appeared to be a little torn. 

“ One might a’most fancy that some- 
body has made a dash through it just 
here. What d’ye think ? ” 

The three others, glancing to where 
the old man pointed, did not appear to 
think much about it. Some animal, 
perhaps,” one of them carelessly replied. 

“ I suppose we must give up all sus- 
picion of Black,” remarked Geoffry 
Clanwaring, as they went on over the 
open field. ‘‘The account he gives 
seems fair enough. Likely to be true.” 

“Aye: I don’t doubt him in this, 
for my part,” acquiesced the Squire. 

“Neither do I,” said Mr. Friar. 

“ I don’t altogether doubt him ; but 
I don’t altogether trust him,” dissented 
George Arde. “ Look here : while you 
were talking to him, I was watching 
him ; taking observations, as may be 
said. There was one thing I did not 
like — his enlarging on the state he was 
in yesterday. It is not considered a 
great crime to get drunk in these 
drinking days ; nevertheless, most men 
would rather hide the fact than gratui- 
tously proclaim it. I wondered wheth- 
er he had any motive for wishing us 
fully to believe that he was drunk. 
Another thing: he never while he 
spoke, looked one of us in the face 
throughout the whole interview.” 

Squire Arde, deep in his own 
thoughts, had not been listening. 
“ Who didn’t ? ” he sharply asked, 
waking up. 

“ Who, sir ! ” returned George Arde, 
slierhtly surprised. “ I was speaking of 
Randy Black.” 


90 


DENE HOLLOW. 


CHAPTEE XIII. 

HAREBELL POND. 

The singular disappearance of Rob- 
ert Owen excited more speculation and 
comment than anything that had oc- 
curred in the neighborhood of late 
years. The turning out of doors and 
razing the home of the widow Barber, 
the stolen marriage of Sir Dene’s son, 
both of note at the time of their occur- 
rence, did not excite the prolonged com- 
motion that this disappearance caused. 
As the days went on and brought no 
tidings, the painful interest increased. 
He was not a man likely to have gone 
away of his own accord ; and yet he 
could not be heard of above ground. 
Mary Barber’s opinion, that he had 
been put under it, spread silently. 

The duck-pond near the fold-yard 
was searched ; it yielded in recompense 
nothing but mud. In returning home 
from his visit to the shed (if he did 
•return), Mr. Owen might pass the 
brink of tliis pond. The probability 
•was that he would ; though he could 
have gone round on the other side the 
barn. Harebell Pond was let alone ; 
it was universally assumed that nothing 
would be likely to take Mr. Owen into 
the lane. To have returned home that 
way, after leaving the shed, he must 
have traversed the outer field, crossed 
the stile opposite the Trailing Indian, 
and thence through the whole of the 
lane — a regular round for nothing. 
So Harebell Pond was not meddled 
with. 

The feeling against the Trailing In- 
dian died away. Mary Barber avowed 
her doubts of it openly enough, and 
this at first raised somewhat of doubt 
in the minds of others : but as there 
was absolutely nothing to corroborate 
these doubts — nay, as the Trailing In- 
dian seem^ed, for that one evening at 
least, to be beyond the pale of suspi- 
cion, the thought of connecting Black 
with the disappearance faded away, so 
far as regarded the public. Mary Bar- 
ber, however, do as she would, could 
not get rid of her fear so easily ; it 
clung to her in spite of herself, and 
perhaps influenced in a degree some of 
those about her. 

Sir Dene Clanwaring, waiving preju- 
dices for the time being, made a call at 
Harebell Farm. Never, since his son’s 


marriage with Maria, had he exchanged 
a word with Robert Owen, or conde- 
scended to notice him by so much as a 
nod in passing. He did not accuse the 
farmer of having in any way helped 
on the marriage, or of being privy to 
it ; but his wounded pride would not 
brook the slightest approach to inter- 
course. In his interest now ; his curi- 
osity, and perhaps also in a better feel- 
ing — that of compassion for Mrs. Owen 
— he considered it his duty as landlord 
to call. Mrs. Owen, however, was 
keeping her room, too ill to receive 
him ; but he saw the sou, who had been 
summoned home in the distress. Wil- 
liam Owen was the eldest of the fami- 
ly; a slight, quiet young man, of three- 
and-twenty, very much like his mother. 
He was with a farmer in Wiltshire, 
gaining experience, and earning a 
small salary. Harebell Farm had 
been no larger than Mr. Owen could 
himself well manage ; and the son was 
waiting until his father could spare the 
funds to take a small farm for him. 
Sir Dene was a little taken with the 
young man, whose manners were very 
gentle and pleasing. Sir Dene ques- 
tioned Mary Barber what her grounds 
had been for doubting Black — of which 
doubt he had heard from his son Geof- 
fry; and Mary Barber, nothing loth, 
regaled Sir Dene’s ears with her singu- 
lar dream. Sir Dene did not attempt 
to dispute the dream, or to cast ridicule 
upon it: he simply asked, when the 
relation was over, what there w^as in 
that dream to cause her to suspect 
Black. She replied that the only part 
of the dream which could have had 
any referenee to Black, w'as'the con- 
cluding part of it — when they were 
searching for Mr. Owen in their dis- 
tress, and were all making, as if by 
instinct, towards the direction of the 
Trailing Indian — and that it was not 
the dream which led her mind to doubt 
Black, but the ill-feeling which the 
man, as was well-known, had long enter- 
tained towards her master. Sir Dene 
nodded acquiescence to this, and took 
his leave courteousljL Since the finding 
of the paper given by Scjuire Honey- 
thorn, he had been very civil to Mary 
Barber when by chance they met : as if 
be would tacitly apologise for having 
doubted her mother’s word. 

The weather in ^gland is capricious j 


HAREBELL POXD. 


91 


as we too well know. Before the Easter 
week was,, quite out, the lovely spring 
sunshine had given place to a heavy fall 
of snow. One day when the ground 
was white Sir Dene and his son 
Geoffry were returning home on foot 
through Harebell Lane from a visit to 
some outlying land on the estate, and 
caught the sound of some young voices 
in dispute, as they approached the pond. 
Suddenly a inaiPs tones drowned the 
others’. 

“ What’s the matter there, I won- 
der ? ” carelessly remarked Sir Dene to 
his son. That’s Black’s voice.” 

The matter was this. Two little 
plough-boys, not quite so hard-worked as 
usual by reason of the snow, had met in 
Harebell Lane, and went in for a game 
of snow-balling. It ended in roughness. 
There was a personal tussle on the edge 
of the pond, and both fell amid the snow 
and rushes. Fell on something that 
hurt the under one. It proved to be a 
thick, nobbly, walking-stick, polished to 
the brightness of mahogany. Both lads 
seized upon it, each claiming it for his 
own booty. While they were fighting 
for possession, Randy Black came up the 
lane, pounced upon the combatants, like 
the bavvk in the fable, and took the stick. 
As Sir Dene came in sight, he was hold- 
ing it above his head, beyond the reach 
of the howling and indignant boys, who 
were vainly jumping up to try and get 
it back. Black had his back turned, and 
did not see that any one was near. 

“ What stick’s that ? ” 

The stern, authoritative interruption 
was Geoffry Clanwaring’s. It arrested 
’the boys’ noise, it startled Black. As 
the ‘man turned sharply to see who spoke 
it, he flung the stick into the pond — and 
Geoffry, springing forward, was too late 
to save it. 

Wh at did you do that for. Black ? ” 
demanded Geoffry. 

‘‘ It’s the best place for it, Mr. Clan- 
waring,” was Black’s answer, as he made 
a show of touching his hat to Sir Dene. 

These here young devils ’ud a fought 
to their skins for’t else.” 

‘‘It is not the best place for it,” re- 
turned Geoffry, with some emotion. 
“ Wait an instant, sir, please,” he added 
to his father, who was walking on. 
“ Whence did you get that stick. 
Black ? ” 


Something seemed to be the matter 
with Black. He bad turned so deadly 
white. 

“What stick was’t?” he questioned 
of the boys, moving to face them. 

“ These here young hounds had lia’ got 
a fighting over it when I come up.” 

“ ’Twere ’mong the rushes,” sobbed 
one. “ ’Twere me as it hurted, a falling 
on’t; ’twere me as bad it first.” 

“ Why do you inquire, Geoffry ? ” 
asked his father. “ Is the stick any- 
thing to you?” 

“ Yes, sir. The stick was Mr. Owen’s. 

It was the one he had with him that 
night.” 

“Xonsense!” cried Sir Dene in his 
surprise. “ Mr. Owen’s ! ” 

“ I am sure of it. As Black held it 
up, I saw it distinctly, and recognized it. 
What was your motive for, throwing it 
into the pond?” he asked, turning on 
Black. 

“ Motive'! I’d got no motive, sir — 
but to pay out these here two varmints,” 
was Black’s ready answer. “ Why don’t 
ye tell about the stick, and where ye got 
it ? ” he savagely added to the Iwo young 
culprits, boxing one, and' kicking, the 
other. “ Not as I should think ’twas 
any stick o’ Owens. ’Taint likely.” 

“ I tell you it 2 cas,” said Geoffry, with 
a touch of his elder brother’s hauteur. 

“ How dare you dispute my word ? ” 

“ If you think ’twas, sir, I’m sure I be 
sorry to have pitched it in,” said Black 
humbly. “I never thought ’twas any- 
thing o’ consequence : and I don’t think 
it now. As to you two young beasts, I 
hope you’ll come to be hung, for getting 
me into this row.” 

He touched his hat again and went on 
towards the Trailing Indian. Geoffry 
Clan waring looked after him. 

“ Father, I do believe that man knows 
more about the past than he ought. He 
pitched in that stick in terror — to hide 
it. So it seemed to me.” 

“ Owen’s stick 1 ” cried Sir Dene, unr 
able to realize the fact. “ What is to be 
done, Geoffry ? ” 

“We must have the pond searched, 
sir. If the stick was really lying amid * 
the rushes on its brink, the probability 
is that he is lying within it.” 

Sir Dene recognized the necessity for 
action, and no time was lost. In the 
presence of quite half the population of 


92 


DENE HOLLOW. 


Hurst Leet, who flocked up to see the 
sight, Harebell pond was searched. The 
stick was first of all fished up, and then 
its master. 

Just as be had gone out of his home 
that night ; in his great coat, his magpie 
cap tied on over his ears, apparently un- 
touched, not a fold of his garments ruf- 
fled, so he was found. At first it was 
supposed that it wuis a simple case of 
accidental drowning. But soon the dis- 
covery was made that he had been in- 
jured — apparently by a blow — in the 
back of his head. Was that blow ac- 
cidental ? — or wilful ? 

Squire Arde, making one of the 
throng, and whose opinion from his age 
and position had long held sway in the 
place, thought Bobert Owen had fallen 
into the pond from above. 

‘‘When he left the cow-shed that 
night, he might have halted at the fence 
to look up and dowm the lane, have 
leaned too far over it and overbalanced 
himself ; his head struck against some 
sharp substance i’ the pond, which 
stunned him, and so he lay and w^as 
drowned. As to the stick, it fell amid 
the rushes, and was hid. “ Or else,’’ 
added Squire Arde, “ some villain struck 
at him from behind as he was standing 
above there, stunned him, and hurled 
him over. ’Twas one or t’other, 1 think. 
D’ye mind what I said t’other daj", Mr. 
Geoifry Clanwaring — about the brush- 
W'ood being disturbed up there ? ” 

The public took up the notion from 
that hour : Bobert Owen, either by ac- 
cident or assault, fell over the fence into 
the water, and lay there quietly to 
drowm. There w^as no proof at all : 
only supposition. The coroner’s inquest 
W’as assembled, and brought in an open 
verdict : Bound dead in Harebell pond. 

And that was the ending of Bobert 
Ow^eii in this world. The ill-fated man 
was buried in the churchyard at Hurst 
Leet, a crowd of spectators attending 
the funeral. 

One piece of impudence must be men- 
tioned. On the day following the inter- 
meht. Bandy Black presented himself at 
Beechhurst, and craved an audience of 
its master. He had come to ask for the 
lease of Harebell Farm, and offered (as 
an inducement) to pa}^ the first year’s 
rent in advance. Sir Dene thought it 
the coolest piece of impudence he had 


ever met with ; and very nearly (in wish 
at an}’ rate) kicked Mr. Bandy out of 
the house. Harebell Farm, he said, was 
not in the market. 

That was true. It had been arranged 
that William Owen should manage the 
farm in his late father’s place ; and Sir 
Dene had already accepted him aa 
tenant. 

A week or two w'ent slowly on. The 
inclement snow, the biting winds again 
gave place, in accordance with their. ca- 
pricious fashion, to genial spring weath- 
er and bright sunshine. But, long ere 
a month had elapsed, a very startling 
and disagreeable rumor arose in the 
place — it was not quite certain whence, 
or how. The substance of it was that 
Bobert Owen could not rest in his grave, 
but came back again to haunt the earth. 
It was said that he had been seen more 
than once hovering about Harebell 
Lane. 

After the rumor had been well whis- 
pered about, the first person to see the 
apparition — or to fancy that he saw it — 
w’as Sir Dene’s butler. Gander. One 
moonlight night towards the end of 
April, just about four w’eeks after that 
other moonlight time, which had wit- 
nessed the disappearance of Bobert 
Ow’en, Gander went up on an errand to 
the Trailing Indian, sent thither by his 
master. Sir Dene happened to be out of 
tobacco : none, for miles round, w’as to 
be had so good as that kept at the Trail- 
ing Indian, and even Sir Dene did not 
disdain to avail himself of that ill-re- 
puted house’s goods. “ Get a pound of 
it. Gander,” said he : “ and as much 
more as Black will spare.” 

Gander got the tobacco, paid for it, 
and accepted a glass of ale, hospitably 
proffered by Black. Like his master, 
he could forget the doubtful reputation 
of inn and host, wiien his interest was 
concerned — and Gander knew w hat good 
ale w’as as w’ell as anybody. “ To drink 
it up at a gulp and bolt, ’ud be fine man- 
ners,” thought the butler. So he sat 
down and sipped it, and had a chat with 
Black. 

“ How’s that there young woman as 
was ill here ? ” he asked. 

“ She’s not about yet,” answered 
Black angrily, for the matter had an- 
noyed him from the first. “ Got a bad 
leg, or something.” 


ONLY SADNESS. 


93 


After sitting about a quarter of an 
hour, Gander started for home at a 
quick pace, the paper of tobacco in his 
hand. “ That’s a rare good tap, up at 
Black’s,” he said to himself as he went 
along the lane. “ Wisli Sir Dene ’ud 
keep as good a one for us ! ” 

Jn approaching the pond, he got 
thinking of him who had, not so long 
ago, been found there ; which was but 
natural ; and the association of ideas 
caused him to glance up at the fence 
above. And if ever a man felt that he 
was struck into stone. Gander did then. 

For tliere, leaning over the fence and 
staring at him — just as he might have 
leaned the night of his death — was the 
well-known form of Kobert Owen. 

Mercy be good to me ! ” gasped the 
butler. 

Dropping the paper of tobacco, never 
stopping to pick it up. Gander sprung 
off with a yell that might have been 
heaid at the Trailing Indian, and never 
drew breath or step till he burst into the 
servants’ hall at Beechhurst Dene. 


CHAPTEE XIV. 

ONLY SADNESS. 

This chapter will be a sad one. I 
am sorry, but there’s no help for it. 
The reader will say, attributing the 
story to the imagination of the writer’s 
brain. Why make these people, in whom 
we have got interested, die ? The 
answer is. Because they did die. For it 
is not a tale of fiction, but a real record 
of the past: of people that lived, and 
of the events that happened to them. 
When an author is trammeled by 
reality, and would be a faithful narrator, 
he cannot put sunshine where darkness 
lay, or make dark that which w’as light. 

Some months have elapsed since the 
death of Eobert Owen, and they have 
brought at least one grave and grievous 
misfortune in their train. Geoffry Clan- 
waring, out one day with a party shoot- 
ing small birds, had received a gun-shot 
wound in his side. There was little 
damage outwardly ; and, of that, he 
soon recovered: but the doctors had a 
suspicion of some grave inward injury: 
and if their fear proved correct, poor 
Geoffry would not be long for this 


world. His father. Sir Dene, did not 
know of this fear — indeed it was con- 
fined pretty much to Mr. Briar, and the 
other surgeon — a skilled man from 
Worcester — who had attended him in 
the accident. Not being absolutely 
sure themselves, they did not talk of ik 
The relations between Sir Dene and 
Geoffrj' remained the same : cordial, but 
not intimate : and GeofiVy and his wife 
had not been admitted as guests within 
the gates of Beechhurst Dene. 

No new light had been thrown upon 
the death of Eobert Owen. The singu- 
lar report — that bis ghost miglit be 
sometimes seen in and about Harebell 
Lane — did not subside. While some 
scouted it as utterly absurd, and old 
Squire Arde laughed over it till his eyes 
ran tears, the greater portion of the 
community lent ear to the story. Gan- 
der — as was before related — had been 
frightened nearly out of his senses by 
the sight. . He was not the only one : 
and Harebell Lane was more tlian ever 
shunned at night. Mrs. Owen remained 
at Harebell Farm, her son William 
managing it in his late father’s place. 

There were great doings at Beech- 
hurst Dene the first fortnight in Sep- 
tember. John Clanwaring, the heir, 
brought down his newly-married wife on 
a visit : and a party was invited to meet 
them. She was very pretty, and an 
heiress : altogether an irreproachable 
match — as John Clanwaring with his 
caution and his pride was sure to make. 
It served, by contrast, to make darker 
the marriage contracted by Geoffry : 
and if by ill luck Mr. Clanwaring met 
his brother, he would pass him as scorn- 
fully as he might have passed some 
despicable character — say Eandy Black, 
for instance — his head in the air. At 
the fortnight’s end, the company quitted 
Beechhurst Dene again : all, save John 
Clanwaring and his wife. They re- 
mained on for another week or two ; 
'but their established home was in Lon- 
don. 

A few days before their departure, the 
brothers again met. It was a lovely 
September day : the sunlight lay on the 
plains, the woods were beginning to 
assume their beautiful autumn tints. 
Mr. Clanwaring, his wife on his arm, 
was about to cross a stile in the Dene 
woods, when Geoffry appeared at it on 


94 


DENE HOLLOW. 


the other side. He, Geoffrj^, was at it 
first : but in courtesy to the lady drew 
back to wait. John Clan waring got 
over, handed over his wife, and walked 
on with her. Save that he snatched his' 
coat round him that it should not touch 
his brother’s in passing, he took no 
notice whatever. It galled Geoffry : he 
thought John might just have named 
his wife to him when they thus met, face 
to face. 

“ I wonder whether he would have 
done it did he know there’s a chance 
that I shall soon be lying low ? ” 
thought Geoffry. And that chance 
exists. I cannot well mistake my own 
feelings : and Priar, unless I am mis- 
taken, knows it better than I do.’^ 

Geoffr}’ was on his road home then, 
to the bailiff’s lodge. Busy with Sir 
Dene’s affairs that morning, out of doors 
as well as in, he had been letting the 
time slip away, past the dinner hour. 
He could not ride about as he used 
before his accident. Maria would be 
waiting for him he knew ; and so he put 
his best foot foremost. Not the fleet 
foot it once was : for quick walking hurt 
him nearly as much as riding. 

The first person he saw on entering 
his cottage home was Mr. Priar. Geof- 
fry mentall}'- leaped to the truth at 
once : his wife must be ill. Even so. 
Her illness had been waited for for some 
days now : Geoffry was expecting a 
little heir. Heir ! It was* a slip of the 
pen. Heir to what ? — his misfortunes ? 
What contrasts exist ! When John’s 
wife should present him with a son, it 
would be the future inheritor of a title 
and of the rich lands of Beechhurst 
Dene : Geoffry’s child would be but a 
humble dependent. Could poor Geoffry 
have foreseen how humble, how depen- 
dent, how despised and put upon, he 
might have wished to take the child 
with him when he himself should die. 

“Is all going well?” was . Geoflfry’s 
first question to the surgeon. 

“ I — hope it will,” answered Mr. Priar 
—and the sli^it want of assurance in 
bis tone at once struck Geoffry. “We 
have been sending after you to Beech- 
hurst Dene, Mr. Geoffry Clanwaring : 
the messenger brought back word that 
you were not there.” 

“I left Beechhurst Dene two hours 
ago. I had things to attend to up at 
Simmonds’s. Is my wife very ill ? ” 


“Not very; not particularly so. You 
can see her.” 

Mrs. Geoffry Clanwaring was quite 
alone in her sickness. Her mother, 
Mrs. Owen, was confined to her bed 
with illness just then ; her sister, Mrs. 
Arde, growing gradually but surely 
weaker, was not able to come. Maria 
herself had been in more delicate health 
all the summer than she need have 
been : her father’s death, and the sad 
manner of it, had shaken her greatly. 

But if Mr. Priar had entertained any 
doubt of the result, it would seem to 
have been needless. The baby made its 
appearance, and was a fine boy. When 
Geoffry first took the little curiosity in 
his arms, he felt prouder of him than if 
he had been born with a silver spoon in 
his mouth. 

“ How light his hair is, Maria ! ” 

“ Yes : it is like yours,” she answered 
with a happy smile. “ I can trace a 
likeness to you. Aijd to Sir Dene.” 

“He’ll be a fine little shaver if he’s 
like my father. We shall have to choose 
a name for him, love.” 

Just a day or two of these fond hopes, 
this delusive security, and then a change 
came. Dangerous symptoms set in for 
Maria Clanwaring ; and a horseman 
went galloping to Worcester for one of 
the best surgeons the city afforded. He 
came and saw her : in conjunction with 
the dismayed Mr. Priar; and they no 
doubt did their best, if there was any- 
thing, best or worst, that could be done. 
It was all in vain : the life, fleeting 
away, could not be arrested. The baby 
also began to droop:* it almost seemed 
as if it would go with its mother. The 
truth had to be told to Geoffry. 

Evening came on. The bustle of the 
going and coming of the -medical men, 
of the awful shock, was past, and over 
the house and household reigned a sol- 
emn stillness. She lay on her bed, pale, 
quiet, exhausted, resigned : far more 
resigned than poor stunned Geoffry. 
He sat by the fire, more like one in a 
dream than a living man : but for dis- 
turbing her, he would have taken the 
pale sweet face from its pillow to his 
breast, and cried aloud to heaven over it 
in his despairing anguish. 

“Perfect quiet, mind, Mr. Geoffry 
Clanwaring,” had been the doctors’ ur- 
gent warning to him. “Once excite 
her to emotion, and all will be over.” 


ONLY SADNESS. 


95 


So there he sat, controlling his bitter 
grief he knew not how ; his golden hair 
damp with the struggle, his blue e3"es 
o’erladen with misery. 

The clergyman came ; and Geoffry 
and his dying wife partook of Christ’s 
last sacrament together. Next, the ba- 
by was brought forward for baptism : 
Maria wished it done. Geoffry leaned 
over his wife to ask her wishes about 
the name. 

“ Call him Tom,” she feebly said. 
“ It was my dear little brother’s name 
who died ; and it is one of \'ours, Geof- 
fry ” 

“ Tom,” said Geoffry, returning to the 
clergyman. 

“ Tom ? ” echoed the minister ques- 
tioningly, his fingers already in the wa- 
ter. 

“ Tom,” repeated Geoffry. 

And so Tom ” the child was chris- 
tened. 

So bewildered and confused with 
trouble was Geoffry Clanwaring, that he 
never remembered until too late that the 
name ought to have been Thomas. It was 
a mistake : but a mistake that did not 
cost him one regretful thought. Under 
the shadow of real calamities, trifling 
ones go for nothing. 

Almost before they were alone again, 
the last moments approached for Maria. 
Geoffry might give way as much as he 
pleased then ; nothing of emotion could 
harm her more in this world. He held 
her to him mid his sobs of anguish, his 
hot tears falling on her face. 

^‘Not for very long, my darling; the 
separation won’t be for long. But a 
little while, a few weeks, or months at 
most, and I shall have followed you.” 

She looked at him as if scarcely un- 
derstanding. 

“ Ay, it is so. I have kept it from 
you, Maria: I meant to let this illness 
of yours be well over before I spoke. 
And oh my wife, my dear one, I know 
not how I should have told you — or how 
have borne to leave you here behind me. 
I am dying of that gun-shot wound, 
Maria, there was some fatal inward in- 
jury. I have suspected it all along: 
and to-day when the doctors were here, 
I got them to acknowledge that they 
suspect it too. You will not have long 
to wait for me on the other side.” 

She was past speaking much, but a 
glad light shone in her dim eyes. Geof- 


fry’s sobs made the room sound again. 
Let us leave them together for the last 
hour. 

It had all been so rapid that there 
was no time to apprise the world of the 
danger that had suddenly set in. But 
the news was spreading now, and some 
people were arriving in hot consterna- 
tion. 

Mary Barber was the first. She had 
been staying at Worcester for some days 
with Mrs. Arde, had only come back "to 
Harebell Farm that afternoon. Geoffry 
Clanwaring’s modest household consisted 
but of one servant, Susan Cole, eldest 
daughter of Cole the fiirrier; a good- 
natured, talkative girl of eighteen, with 
frizzlj^ -looking hair the color of old rope, 
and a fixed color in her face. She was 
in the kitchen with the nurse when 
Mary Barber arrived. And when Mary 
Barber heard that — instead of the dan- 
ger she had come to inquire into — life 
was all but over, she, after giving a min- 
ute or two to digest the shock, nearly 
shook Susan Cole. 

“ You heartless, wicked huzzy ! You 
couldn’t come up to saj*^ so ? ” 

“ I didn’t know it till just now,” re- 
turned Susan, who was crying silently in 
grief for her pretty 3’oung mistress. “ It 
have come on us as sudden as a blow. 
As to master, he’s like a man dazed. I 
don’t believe he have been able to recol- 
lect nothing. But he did send to the 
farm.” 

Mary Barber, standing upright in 
the small kitchen, thought over the 
past two or three hours. Upon her return 
from Worcester, Joan had said a mes- 
senger had been up to sa}' there was 
a change in young Mrs. Clanwaring : 
and Mary Barber came off, but not at 
once, for she had never thought of this 
change. 

“ Where’s the baby ? ” she asked, 
under her breath. For, now that the 
first shock to her feelings had been 
relieved by blaming somebod}'’, the ex- 
tent of the calamity subdued her. 

He’s sleeping in his cradle,” said 
the nurse. “ He seems a bit better to- 
night than he did earlier in the day.” 

“ Whatever will be done about bring- 
ing him up ? ” 

“ Oh, as to that,” returned the nurse, 
“children ’ll sometimes thrive as well 
without their mothers as with ’em.” 

A movement overhead, and a call 


96 


DENE HOLLOW. 


from Geoffry sent the nurse and Mary 
Barber upstairs, the latter flinging off 
her cloak and bonnet as she went. Tlie 
last moment was at hand : the fleeting 
spirit and the earthly body were fighting 
in their separation. 

My poor lamb ! ” wailed Mary Bar- 
ber, leaning over the pale face, quiet 
again now. “ Oh wasn’t it enough that 
your poor father should have went — that 
your sister should be fast going — but 
that the Lord must take you! We’d 
say that it was cruelly hard — only that 
His ways are not as our ways.” 

There was a gentle flutter on the face, 
and Maria turned her head upon t' e 
pillow, looking away to a distant part 
of the room. ; . 

“ Yes,” she said in a distinct, cheerful 
voice, as if answering a calk 

Geoffry was hastening round, but 
Mary Barber lifted her finger for silence. 
She knew the. sign — and what it meant. 

‘‘ Hush, Mr.. Geoffry. She’s passing 
now. It was her answer to the sum- 
mons ! ” 

And the spirit did pass, even as the^ 
woman said it. Passed with a deep, 
long sigh. Mary Barber caught up her 
breath with another. 

I knew that death was coming to the 
family, Mr. Geoffry : but I tliought it 
was for Mrs. Arde. I knew it by my 
dreams.” 

As Geoffry quitted the room, leaving 
the two women in it, quitting it like one 
who gropes his blind way in the dark, so 
stunned were all his faculties, he became 
dimly conscious of a loud, sharp, knock- 
ing somewhere. It was in reality at 
the panel of his house-door — but it 
seemed to him miles off; or perhaps 
only in some distant region of his brain. 
Susan Cole opened the door, and the 
voice of Sir Dene was heard. That 
aroused him to passing events, and he 
went down stairs. Sir Dene was stand- 
ing in the paHor ; their one sitting-room, 
til at Maria had made so pretty. Vases 
of bright flowers stood about, fresh yet : 
she had put them there on the morning 
of the day she was taken ill. 

“ Geoffry ? what’s this I hear ? — That 
your wife is in imminent danger,” began 
Sir Dene. “ Coming out just now for a 
stroll after dinner, I met Cole, and he 
mentioned it.” 

“ My wife is dead, father.” 

Sir Dene looked at his son, as if he 


quite believed his mind must be wander- 
ing. 

“ Yes, she’s dead,” was repeated by 
Geoffry’s quivering lips. “ Only just 
now : not three minutes since.” 

“Lord bless me!” broke from Sir 
Dene. 

He backed against the upright book- 
case, and stood staring, waiting for his 
senses to come to him. 

“ Wli}’’ ! — you told me yourself this 
morning, Geoffry, that she was going on 
all right!” 

“ And so she was, father. A change 
took place an hour or two after mid-day. 
Priar came, and Dr. Woody att was 
fetched. They could not save her.” 

“ It is awfully sudden,” cried the dis- 
mayed Sir Dene. “ Poor thing ! Poor 
young thing ! ” 

Geoffry, come to the end of his equa- 
nimity, put his head down on the table, 
and sobbed aloud. Great bursting sobs 
that shook him. Sir Dene wondered 
udiether there was any brandy in the 
house, or other kind of cordial, and where 
he could find it. Self-reproach was 
stinging Sir Dene keenly. When those 
whom we have injured or not sufficiently 
regarded in life, are dead, it is then that 
repentance touches us. He had not been 
as kind as he might to this poor young 
girl, now gone from them all for ever. 
True he had been pleasant and courteous 
to her when they met ; but he had never 
invited her inside his gates, he had not 
treated her as a daughter-in-law : and 
he wished now that he had done it, in 
spite of the prejudices of his eldest son 
and heir. 

“ Don’t give way, G-eoff, my boy. 
Don’t ! Bless my heart, but this is a 
dreadful blow, and I’m — I’m truly sorry 
for it. Poor young girl ! but little more 
than a child ! Can I find a drop of 
brandy for ^mu, Geoff?”* 

Geoffry did not want brandy : he 
could not have touched it. Drying 
away his tears, swallowing down his 
bitter sobs, striving manfully with his 
emotion, he there and then disclosed to 
his father the fact that he himself (as 
he trulj'” believed) should not live long 
after his wife ; that the same grave 
might almost be kept open for him. 
It would have been a greater shock to 
Sir Dene than the other, only he did 
not put faith in it. 

“ Dying of that gun-shot wound ! ” 


ONLY SADNESlS. 


97 


he repeated. Geoffry, my poor fellow, 
things are wearing their gloomiest hue 
to you just now ; ’tis but natural. If 
there is anything wrong inwardly, we’ll 
soon have you set to rights.” 

“ Father, I don’t think there’ll be 
any more setting to rights for me ; I 
don’t indeed. You can ask Priar or 
Woody att about it ; they know, I fan- 
cy. It’s only within a week, or so, 
that I have felt sure of it myself.” 

“ Nonsense, Geoffry. It was not 
much of a hurt at the worst. You 
shall be doctored up.” 

Geoffry said no more. But a sure 
and certain prevision lay upon him this 
evening, that his own end was not far 
off. It might come upon them almost 
as suddenly at the last, he thought, as 
his wife’s had come upon him. 

“ Geoffry, I’d like to see her,” said 
Sir Dene when he rose to depart. 

They went up the narrow staircase 
with hushed footsteps. The house was 
like one of death, in its utter stillness. 
The infant slept in another room ; Sir 
Dene never once thought about him at 
all. 

They had already dressed her for the 
grave. The sweet, calm, pale face look- 
ed almost like that of an angel. Sir 
Dene felt pain, regret, grief — nearly as 
be had when his own wife died. 

“ Poor darling ! — poor innocent 
child!” he murmured, touching her 
brow. May the good Lord have 
taken her to His happy Best ! ” 

“ She was kind and good and pure 
as one of Heaven’s angels, father.” 
And Geoffry’s sobs broke forth again. 

As Sir Dene was w’alking up the 
Hollow on his way home, the death- 
bell suddenly struck out from Hurst 
Leet Church. Mary Barber had sent 
Susan Cole flying to tell the sexton. 
Sir Dene stopped and listened : it seem- 
ed to bring more forcibly than ever the 
event before him. Three times two: 
and then the sharp quick strokes to 
denote that the soul was passing. 

“ I wonder who’s gone now ? ” 

The irreverent words, for their care- 
less tone made them so, absolutely 
startled Sir Dene. Standing to listen, 
his back turned to his home, his face 
towards the village, he had not observ- 
ed that any one was near. Tempted by 
the beauty of the evening — a warm 
6 


still moonlight night — Mr. Clanwaring 
had come out for a stroll just as his 
father had previously done. It was he 
who spoke. 

“ What did you say ? ” asked Sir 
Dene, sharply turning upon him. 

“ I thought you were listening to the 
passing-bell, sir. Some village woman, 

I suppose, has dropped off.” 

They’d not trouble themselves to 
ring the passing-bell at this time of 
night for a ‘ village woman,’ I expect,” 
said Sir Dene sternly, for the words 
grated harshly on his present frame 
of mind. In truth he had not been 
feeling very genially towards his heir 
p'''he walked up. But for him and his 
prejudices. Sir Dene would have relent- 
ed to Geoffry and his poor young wife : 
he saw things clearly now, and knew it. 

John Clanwaring wondered at the 
tone. Do you know who it’s for then, 
sir ? ” he asked. 

“ It is for your brother’s wife.” 

cried John Clanwaring, for- 
getting his grammar in his surprise. 

“ For your brother’s wife. Don’t I 
speak plain enough? Geofifry’s sweet 
pretty young wife; poor Owen’s daugh- 
ter. She’s dead.” 

“ I’m sure I’m sorry to hear it, for 
her sake,” said Mr. Clanwaring, some- 
what taken aback. “ It is very sudden, 
is it not, sir ? ” 

“ It is sudden. You were harshly 
contemptuous to her, John, in your 
judgment : she is gone where neither 
harshness nor contempt can reach her. 
She looks like an angel, lying there, 
with her pale, innocent face.” 

“ It is a sad fate for her, poor thing : 
I really pity her, sir,” admitted John 
Clanwaring. And there was a pause. 

“I am not sure but Geoffry will be 
the one to go next, John,” resumed Sir 
Dene. “We shall wish then, perhaps, 
that we had been a bit kinder to them.” 

“ Is he likely to die of grief?” asked 
John. 

“ Grief ’s a complaint you^W never die 
of; you’ve not got feeling enough,” 
retorted Sir Dene. “ Geoffry talks of 
that shot he got awhile ago; he fears 
it left some fatal injury behind it. For 
my part I think it piust be only fancy.” 

“ Of course it is only fancy,” return- 
ed John Clanwaring in a tone of asser- 
tion. “ Were there any permanent in- 


98 


DENE HOLLOW. 


jury, Geoflfry could not go about as he 
does.” 

They fell* into silence. The quick 
strokes of the hell were dying away to 
give place to its slow and monotonous 
toll. It had a weird, solemn sound, 
breaking out at intervals in the stillness 
of the autumn night. 


CHAPTER XV. 

SEEN BY MOONLIGHT. 

“ You had better come back to Beech- 
hurst Dene, Geoflfry.” 

The speaker was Sir Dene. They 
had just returned from the funeral, and 
Sir Dene had entered Geoffry’s home 
with him, leaving the other mourners — 
John Clan waring, George Arde, and 
William Owen — to disperse. Mr. Clan- 
waring had condescended to attend the 
funeral. Sir Dene put it to him strong- 
ly — that he ought to do it. So he de- 
layed yet his departure from town, and 
waited. It probably went against the 
grain to stand side by side with William 
Owen, mourners at the same grave : but 
elohn, cool and impassive, made no sign. 
He had condescended to shake hands 
with Geoifry, and say he sympathized 
with him in his loss. Sir Dene went 
in with Geoflfry afterwards. The little 
dwelling seemed strangely still and soli- 
tary ; and the baronet felt it as a chill. 

‘‘ You had better come back to Beech- 
hurst Dene, and be taken care of,” he 
repeated. ^^Now that the poor young 
thing’s gone, there’s nobody to do any- 
thing for you here : nothing to keep you 
in the place. Geoff, my boy, I never 
disliked her.” 

No, father, I don’t think you did.” 

I shall never forget that time I saw 
her at Malvern, toasting a pikelet at the 
fire. Pretty creature ! standing there 
to face me, so sweet and modest and 
humble, in her white India muslin frock 
and the blue ribbons in her hair. I 
know real India muslin when I see it : 
nobody better. She couldn’t put the 
toasting fork down at first, Geoff, for 
timidity, but kept it in her hand. ’Twas 
as pretty a picture as a man ever saw.” 

Geoffry, who was beginning to look 
sadly worn and thin, made no answer. 
His heart was brim-full. 


“ Then you’ll come back home, Geoff?” 

“ Yes, father, thank you j I think I 
had better. If John does not object.” 

‘‘John object ! — John be — be shot ! ” 
exploded the baronet, pulling up the 
word he had just been about to speak 
when he remembered where he had just 
been. “It’s not John’s house yet, that 
he should rule it. He and his wife are 
going posting off again, I’m glad to say : 
somehow things are never So pleasant 
when he is at home. Come to-morrow : 
to-night, if you will. You must never 
think of running away from me again, 
Geoff.” 

Geoflfry smiled faintly. “Not in the 
same manner that I did before, father. 
I’ll promise you that.” 

“ Nor in any other, I hope,” was Sir 
Dene’s quiet rejoinder. “We’ll nurse 
you into strength at the Dene.” 

Accordingly on the following day in 
the forenoon, Geoflfry Clanwaring walked 
up to his old home, just as though he 
were going to make a call, or to do an 
hour’s work in the business parlor as 
usual. He carried in his arms his not 
yet fortnight old baby, wrapped in a red 
shawl. As he was about to enter the 
front gates, there came thundering down 
the avenue a close carriage-and-four, the 
post-boys spurring the horses to make 
the exit in proper style, after the fash- 
ion of the day. The carriage bore the 
arms of John Clanwaring, the heir : he 
sat in it with his wife : an attendant 
man and maid in the rumble behind. 
Geoffry stood aside to let it pass. No 
one saw him but the valet, who touched 
his hat — and wondered no doubt what 
Mr. Geoffry Clanwaring had got in that 
red bundle. They were commencing 
their journey to London. Mrs. Clan- 
waring, he saw, had no mourning on. 

“ And yet Maria was every whit as 
good as she ; ay, and better,” thought 
Geoflfry ; and as he went on up the ave- 
nue, he could not see the ground for his 
blinding tears. 

Not tears for the lack of black on Mrs. 
Clanwaring. No. But this coming home 
with the little helpless burthen, brought 
all too painfully to his mind what he had 
lost. 

“ Goodness me ! ” exclaimed Sir Dene, 
as Geoflfry sat down in the library, and 
undid the shawl. “Why, that’s your 
baby, Geoffry.” 


SEEN BY MOONLIGHT. 


99 


‘•Yes, father. I couldn’t leave him 
behind.” 

“ Bless the child ! I declare I forgot 
all about him. Well, the women shall 
take care of him. There’s plenty of 
them to do it. What’s his name ? ” 

“ His name’s Tom,” replied Geoffry. 
“ She was anxious about it before she 
died, and I had it done. The child 
drooped and ailed that day, just as though 
it knew its mother was leaving it. It 
seems all right now.” 

“ You mean Thomas, I suppose.” 

“ No : Tom. The mistake was mine. 
I was confused with grief and said ‘Tom ’ 
twice over to the parson, never recollect- 
ing that it should have been Thomas. 
It will not matter, father : Tom is as 
good a name for him as any other.” 

“ No, it won’t matter,” replied Sir 
Dene. “ What does he live upon, 
Geoff ?— Sop ? ” 

“ He lives upon barley - water and 
milk,” said Geoffry. “ He won’t cost 
much. Susan Cole is bringing some 
up : she can show the maids here how 
to feed him.” 

The child, who had slept through this, 
awoke now, opening his eyes. Sir Dene 
advanced to look at him — su^h a little 
face, it was, peeping out of the shawl. 
Geoffry took off the cambric cap, and 
showed his bits of fair hair. 

“ He’s got just the look that you had at 
his age, Geoffry. I remember it well. 
The first of you born, John, had a black 
head like his mother; you were fair, 
like me. It’s a prett}’’ baby : it will be 
just like you.” 

“ So poor Maria said. Like me and 
like you, she thought.” 

“ Aye ! at your age I was much what 
you are, Geoffry. Poor little mother- 
less lambkin ! ” added Sir Dene pity- 
ingly, as he stroked the baby’s face. 

“ Soon to be fatherless also,” spoke 
Geoffry. 

“No, no, my boy; I trust not,” said 
Sir Dene. 

But Geoffry shook his head : he knew 
better. 

“ Father, you’ll give him a bite and 
a sup here when I am gone, a pillow in 
some odd corner, won’t you ? ” — and 
tbe words seemed to come from the 
very depths of an aching heart. 
“ He’ll be in nobody’s way, poor little 
waif.” 


“ I will, Geoff,” heartily answered 
Sir Dene, his eyes dimmed by some 
earnest tears, that rose and were check- 
ed. “ I promise it you. The child 
shall be as welcome to his bit and his 
sup as you were. There’s my hand 
upon it.” 

People rarely give themselves more 
trouble than they can help. None of 
the maids showed themselves too ready 
to undertake the (at best) onerous 
charge of an infant, as proposed by 
Sir Dene : and when Susan Cole arriv- 
ed with the barley water and milk for 
its food, and sundry of its clothes, tied 
up in a large silk handkerchief, the 
servants, who did pretty much as they 
liked, told her she had better remain 
for a day or two, and see to the child. 
The day or two grew into a month or 
two, and that into a period indefinite, 
Susan Cole taking the entire charge ; 
and Sir Dene falling in with the ar- 
rangement as if it was a matter of 
course, without a word either way. 
He was very fond of the child, would 
often nurse and toss him : and when he 
saw its baby sleeves tied up with black 
ribbons and a black sash round its 
waist, that Susan Cole put on the day 
poor Geoffry died. Sir Dene held the 
little face to his own for some minutes, 
as if that black made a fonder link be- 
tween them. 

So the baby grew, and thrived, and 
got its teeth, and learnt to walk and 
talk, just as other healthy and happy 
children do: and Sir Dene loved the 
boy; and Susan Cole was proud of 
hiijQ ; and Gander admired him more 
than he had admired anything since 
poor Geoffry himself was young ; and 
the other servants alternately indulged 
and snubbed him. With it all — in 
spite of his being Sir Dene’s grandson 
and that he had his home at Beech- 
hurst Dene — he was not altogether 
considered by the servants as a child 
of the house ; he did not get the def 
erence that a son of, for instance, John 
Clanwaring would have received. 

The boy, as he got older and stronger, 
incurred the danger of being allowed 
to run wild. Sir Dene had about as 
much notion of the proper way of 
bringing up a child as he had of a 
young tiger ; and nobody else interfered 


100 


DENE HOLLOW. 


to suggest. There was no day nursery. 
As long as the child was in arms, Su- 
san Cole sat where she pleased with 
him — mostly in the kitchen or servants’ 
hall ; when he could run he roamed 
where he would about the house at 
will. Sir Dene would pick him up 
and talk to him, and put him by his 
side at table, and call for a plate and 
spoon for the child.” If Tom ran 
out to see Sir Dene mount his horse, 
Sir Dene would lift him on to the sad- 
dle, bare headed and bare armed, and 
ride off with him, perhaps for miles, in 
the summer weather. When not with 
Sir Dene he would be left very much to 
his own devices, for Susan Cole was a 
frightful gossip, and regarded social 
intercourse with anybody who would 
talk to her, as the sweetest thing in 
life. There were times also when Sir 
Dene was away from Beechhurst, and 
during these seasons Tom got very lit- 
tle attention at all. Gander, who was 
regarded by Sir Dene as head of the 
servants, and in a degree ruled them, 
would be with his master, and at home 
it would be high life below stairs. To 
save trouble, little Tom’s plate and fork 
would be set at the kitchen table : he 
would be looked for and brought in to 
meals : and that was about all the care. 
He was one of those quiet, happy chil- 
dren who amuse themselves : would 
sit for hours on the library floor, look- 
ing at a picture-book, or in some remote 
room amidst the animals out of his 
Noah’s ark. The servants knew the 
child was safe, and that sufficed. Cole 
the farrier had a journeyman ; he was 
Susan’s sweetheart; — consequently she 
passed a great deal more time in her 
father’s forge than in looking after 
Tom. In fact, save for the odd mo- 
ments of tenderness bestowed upon him 
by Sir Dene, the little child was very 
much what his poor father had called 
him the day he brought him up in the 
red shawl — a waif. He was a wonder- 
fully pretty and engaging child, with 
the sweet temper and gentle manners 
of his mother, and the kindly blue eyes 
and fair curls of his father. A child to 
be loved and cherished : a child that 
with proper training would make a 
good and noble man : a child to whom 
God had been generous, in implanting 
in his heart a full portion of most ex- 
cellent seed. 


Sir Dene was often away. He had 
taken permanent rooms in London, and 
could go there at will. John Clan war- 
ing never came down now to Beech- 
hurst Dene. His wife’s health had 
been very delicate since the birth of 
her child, a girl ; John said she was 
not strong enough to move about, and 
therefore he did not. At any rate, it 
was a good excuse for his remaining in 
the place he liked best and never cared 
to be out of — London. Perhaps this 
took Sir Dene there. John was not 
his favorite son — he was gone — but 
John was better than none : and the 
baronet found it very lonely at Beech- 
hurst Dene. So, he and Gander went 
away for weeks together, the servants 
took their own ease and Tom his own 
way. No wonder the neglected child 
grew fond of going to Mrs. Owen’s : 
once or twice he had run off thither 
alone. He also went to Squire Arde’s. 

No longer the old Squire ; the little 
man who was so odd and quaint ; but a 
new one. Changes were everywhere. 
The strange little old man 'was dead, 
and George Arde reigned at the Hall, 
and was called Squire in his turn. The 
will he left was nearly as odd as he had 
been : so at least, thought the public. It 
was certainly unexpected. A notioni — 
gathered from observation of the old 
Squire’s character, and perhaps from 
occasional words let fall by him during 
his latter life — had become fixed in men’s 
minds ; that he would never leave a 
shilling of his money to any relative : 
but all of it to charities, and especially 
to those charities connected with the in- 
sane. “Droitwich ’ll be the better for 
his savings,” quoth the neighbors to 
one another — alluding to the well-known 
asylum at that place — when the news 
went forth that Squire Arde was dead. 

He’ll direct the Hall and all its be- 
longings, inside and out, to be sold ; and 
Droitwich mad-house ’ll get the whole 
on’t.” 

The neighbors were mistaken. Squire 
Arde’s will did not give a shilling to any 
charity : Droitwich asylum (or, as it 
was universally put then “ madhouse ”) 
was not as much as mentioned in it. 
The Hall, with all that pertained to 
it and the income attaching to it, was 
left to George Arde, to his own intense 
surprise. 

George Arde’s wife was not then dead. 


SEEN BY MOONLIGHT. 


101 


In her very delicate state she had lived 
on much longer than any one could have 
supposed, fluttering always, as may be 
said, between life and death. Now and 
then the old* Squire would call when he 
was at Worcester, and see the child, little 
Mary, to whom he seemed to have taken 
a fancy. Necklaces, and trifles of that 
description that had belonged to his own 
dead child, the other Mary, he would 
bring it. I should not be much sur- 
prised at his leaving her a thousand 
pounds,” said George Arde one day to 
his wife when the Squire had been, and 
brought a new coral with silver bells. 

Not one thousand, did he leave the 
child, but twenty. The will bequeathed 
a certain sum of money to “ Mary, 
daughter of my third cousin, George 
Arde.” Which sum, already out at safe 
and 'good interest, would represent twen- 
ty thousand pounds on the day Mary 
Arde should be eighteen : and it was to be 
hers then unconditionally. So little Mary, 
granddaughter of the late unfortunate 
Robert Oj^en, and cousin of young Tom 
Clanwari^, turned out to be an heiress. 

Before George Arde took up his 
abode at the Hall, his wife died. She 
had been in so weak a state, and it had 
become so evident that her death was 
near, that the trouble of removing was 
spared her. She died in the small house 
where they had lived, and was buried in 
the same mouldy old church that had 
witnessed poor Maria Owen’s stolen 
marriage — St. Peter’s. George Arde 
and his little daughter went to the Hall 
then. 

This removal occurred when Tom was 
about a year old. Two years have al- 
ready gone by since. The boy was fond 
of going to the Hall. Susan Cole en- 
joyed the society of the servants ; T^ 
that of the little girl. George Arde 
welcomed the lad freely when he was 
at home : but he had taken to visit about 
a good deal. Rumors of his second 
marriage were abroad : George Arde, 
owner of Arde Hall and Squire of the 
parish, young still and an agreeable 
man, was no undesirable match, and 
was courted in the county accordingly. 

Would the little girl, the heiress, live 
to come into her wealth ? The question 
was arising. Symptoms of delicacy (she 
w’as her mother’s child all over) w^ere 
beginning to manifest themselves, and 


it was feared she might not. George 
Arde was intensely fond of her: and 
perhaps the first thing that put second 
marriage into his head was the wish to 
have some kind and gentle lady in his 
house who would watch over the child 
carefully, and stand to it in the light of 
a mother. Once having made up his 
mind to this, Mr. Arde was not long 
about it. He chose his second wife from 
one of the first and proudest families in 
the county. It was rather singular that 
the day of the marriage was little Tom’s 
birthday : he was three years old. 

On that self-same night occurred an 
incident which must be mentioned. 
Robert Owen appeared again. The 
miserable rumors — that his spirit came 
back to trouble the earth — had never 
died away. From whatever source aris- 
ing, whether delusion, superstitious fancy, 
or actual (if unaccountable) fact, they 
but gained ground and spread. No 
sooner had one report of the appearance 
had time to subside and people began to 
forget it, than another fright would come. 
Now it would be a belated laborer, going 
home at a tardy hour up Harebell Lane : 
now a carter’s boy ; now some traveller 
on his way to the Trailing Indian. On 
this night that we are now speaking of, 
two people saw it, one of whom was 
Black. 

Black had been down to Hurst Leet 
on an errand. Coming home again 
about nine o’clock through a flood of 
moonlight, he burst into the Trailing 
Indian in a fearful state : his breath 
gone, the sweat pouring off him, his 
hair on end. More abject terror could 
not well be seen. Mr. Friar happened 
to be there — for Mrs. Black’s sickly 
state required him to pay her an occa- 
sional visit and he would go up at any 
odd moment when leisure allowed him ; 
two or three men were also drinking in 
the kitchen, when in burst the landlord 
in the extraordinary state described. 
That his fear had no sham in it, could 
not be mistaken : though how it was 
possible for a hardened man like Blac|f 
to feel afraid of any earthly or ghostly 
thing, Mr. Friar, for one, could not im- 
agine. Mixing some brandy and water, 
the doctor made him drink it. Black’s 
teeth chattered as he told what he had 
seen — Robert Owen standing at that 
part above Harebell Lane, where he was 


DENE HOLLOW. 


*102 

■i 

supposed to have fallen from, and gazing 
down at the pond. Question after ques- 
tion was poured into Black’s ear, espe- 
cially from the startled men ; but he 
could tell no more than he had told. 
Coming up the Lane by the pond pretty 
quick, he happened to turn his eyes up 
to the fence above the water ; and there, 
leaning over it, was the figure of 
Robert Owen, his face as white as it 
had been when he lay dead, his beard 
as silvery as it was in life. Black did 
not stay to give a second look, but 
came off as fast as his shaking legs 
would carry him : and the strangest 
thing of all was, that he should sit 
there in his kitchen and confess to it. 
But fear takes pride, and reticence too, 
out of the most hardy man. 

Before Black had at all recovered his 
equanimity, or had done trembling, a 
choice friend of his came in — Michael 
Geacb, who had arrived that evening on 
one of his unexpected visits to the 
Trailing Indian. One might have ex- 
pected ridicule of the tale at least from 
Geach; but on the contrary it seemed 
to make him rather uncomfortable. 

“ I never was a coward,” he observed ; 

but it’s no light thing ’ud persuade 
me into Harebell Lane of a night now. 
Hanged if I’d not rather come slap 
upon a body whitening in chains on the 
gibbet, than see Owen’s ghost. Cheer 
up, Randy, and don’t shake soj you be 
all blue.” 

When did you come here ? ” asked 
Black, in no pleasant tones. 

“ Me ! I’ve been here this hour, and 
more ; a waiting for you to come in.” 

‘‘ Why couldn’t you ha’ sent word you 

was Prat it altogether ! You 

needn’t shake.” 

The concluding observation was made 
to Black’s wife. His eyes happened to 
fall on her as he was addressing Geach, 
and he left his sentence to that worthy 
gentleman unfinished. *Poor Robert 
Owen might be a ghost, but he could 
not look like one more than Mrs. Black 
did. Her face was livid; her disabled 
hands entwined themselves one within 
the other in a nervous dread, that Mr. 
Priar rarely saw equalled. Black, for- 
getting his own symptoms, told her she 
was a fool, and drove her from the room. 

Well, Randy Black was not the only 
one to see the ghost that night. And 


if the reader despises me for repeating 
these stories of superstition, I can plead 
but one apology — that I am relating 
only what absolutely passed, the events 
of this really true tale. The other to 
see it was William Owen. 

The flying reports, that Robert Owen’s 
spirit could not rest, had annoyed great- 
ly the inmates of Harebell Farm. As 
was only natural. Even superstitious 
Mary Barber, burying her private con- 
victions in regard for the honor of the 
family, protested far and wide that it 
could not be true. None of them had 
seen anything to warrant it, up to this 
time : not even William, who was often 
abroad at night on his land. But not 
on that part of it that lay towards the 
Trailing Indian. The very fact that 
the ghost was said to haunt those fields, 
and especially the two-acre meadow, 
caused him not to put sheep there. The 
shepherd absolutely refused to go near 
the spot at night. 

On this evening William Owen had 
gone on foot to a farm houses mile or 
two beyond the Trailing IndlSb. Mary 
Barber had got a nice bit of hot supper 
ready for him, and when nine o’clock 
struck, she wondered how much longer 
he meant to be. Soon afterwards she 
heard his footsteps, and opened the back 
door to admit him. 

Could it be the moonlight that made 
his face look so white ? He took no 
notice of her, but walked straight into 
the best kitchen ; where his supper was 
laid. 

“ What’s the matter now ? ” cried 
Mary Barber following him, and gazing 
in surprise at his strange countenance. 
“ Be you took sick, Mr. William ? ” 

His face was whiter than death : he 
w^s wiping the moisture from it with a 
trembling hand. Mary Barber saw that 
no light matter was stirring him. 

“ What is it?” she said, sinking her 
voice to a whisper that seemed to par- 
take of his own dread emotion. 

“ I have seen my father,” was his 
low answer. 

“ No ! ” she exclaimed. 

Mary, as true as that you and I are 
here, living, I saw him. There’s no 
mistake about it. He looked exactly as 
I’ve seen him look a hundred times in 
life : his old cap on, and his white beard 
flowing.” , 


VERY MUCH OF A WAIF. 


103 


Heaven be good to us ! ” cried Ma- 
ry. “ Where was this ? ” 

“ I crossed over the stile opposite the 
Trailing Indian, to come home straight 
over the fields, said William Owen. 

Just past the narrow path between the 
grove of trees and the fence above the 
pond, I chanced to look back : and there, 
standing with his back against the trees, 
looking after me, as it seemed, I saw my 
father. 1 stood like one turned to stone, 
Mary, not knowing, 1 b’lieve whether to 
go for’ard or backward, or where to run 
to ; and there it stood, the two of us 
staring at one another. The next mo- 
ment the thing was gone ; vanished into 
air, as it seemed to me ; and I came 
away, leaping hedges and ditches.” 

Mary Barber caught up her breath 
with a gasp ; her young master bent his 
head on the face of the old-fashioned 
mantelpiece. Presently he spoke again. 

“ I have been thinking whether there 
was anything to cause me to look back j 
any sound, or that. It could hardly 
have beijk chance.” 

“ Ha^rtwas no chance, Mr. William. 
I — wonder — what — it can want ? ” she 
slowly added. 

William Owen could not say what, 
any more than she could. All he knew 
was, that he would give half of his fu- 
ture life not to have been subjected to 
the terror — to the distress — to the ca- 
lamity altogether. 

You should have gone up and asked 
it, Mr. William.” 

William Owen looked at her, a 
strange horror in his eyes. “ I’d not 
have done it for that tureen full of sov- 
ereigns,” he said, pointing to a large 
soup tureen on the dresser. “ Were I 
ever to see it again, Mary, J. could not 
stay on the Farm.” 

“ It’s an awful thing.” 

Take care that you keep it from my 
mother, Mary.” 

“ As from all other folks, as well as 
her,” was Mary Barber’s answer. 

However, the story got wind. At 
least, a suspicion of it. Added to the 
more public account of what had befallen 
Bandy Black, it was enough to frighten 
a timid neighborhood : and people grew 
to have a mortal dread of Harebell Lane, 
after the dark had fallen. 


CHAPTEE XVI. 

VERY MUCH OP A WAIF. 

“ Grandma ! ” 

Mrs. Owen, who had dropped into a 
doze in her easy chair, did not hear the 
call. The handle of the door (rather a 
difficult one to open) was twisted this 
way and that by little fingers, and the 
appeal came again. 

“ Grandma ! Won’t you let me in, 
grandma ? ” 

“ Is it my dear little Baby Tom ? ” 
cried Mrs. Owen, rising to admit the 
intruder. 

Baby Tom it was, poor Geoffry’s 
orphan boy. Mrs. Owen tottered back 
to her seat, the child in her hand. She 
was always weak and ill, as her most 
delicate and gentle face betrayed. 
Never strong, the calamitous death of 
her husband, and the subsequent death 
of her daughter, had been nearly fatal 
to her. She certainly lived on : but it 
was as a woman who has nearly done 
with this world, whose whole thoughts 
are in the next. 

She took off the child’s straw hat — a 
broad-brimmed' hat with a bit of yellow 
ribbon tied round the crown. Lifting 
him on her knee, she pushed back the 
golden hair from his open forehead, and 
gazed into his earnest, dark blue eyes. 
He was little for his age ; three years 
old on the previous day — for this was 
the morning following the events related 
in the last chapter — he might have been 
taken for not much more than two : 
but, as is sometimes the case with these 
small bodies, the mind was unusually 
advanced. But for his exceedingly re- 
tiring disposition, the shy, modest sensi- 
tiveness of his nature, with its invari- 
ably accompanying quality, reticence, 
he might have been that most undesira- 
ble thing — a precocious child. His 
gentle manners saved him from it. 

As if divining somewhat of the peace 
of Mrs. Owen’s inward life, the boy 
when with her .was ever more gentle 
than at other times, strangely thought- 
ful, quiet, and tractable. It has been 
said that this story is not one of ideal 
fiction : and people were wont to remark 
to one another during this, the later 
portion of Mrs. Owen’s years, that her 
life lay in heaven. While she was look- 
ing at those wonderful eyes — and the 


DENE HOLLOW. 


104 


child really had such, they were so 
beautiful — he began to cry. 

“ Why, Tom, what is it ? ” 

Grandpapa rode away without me. 
Susan wouldn’t make haste with my 
things, and he did not wait. When I 
cried, she said I wanted a shaking.” 

“ Did Susan bring you here ? ” 

‘‘No. I came.” 

Mrs. Owen need scarcely have asked 
the question. The child had come off 
without superfluous ceremony, in his 
brown holland pinafore and old straw 
hat : Susan would have dressed him 
first. 

“ Will you read me a Bible story, 
grandma?” 

“ Ay,” said Mrs. Owen. “ Kun and 
fetch the book.” 

There were Bible stories for children 
in those days just as there in these ; but 
they did not get read so much. Mrs. 
Owen took care that Tom should hear 
them. He could just reach the little 
book from the side-table, and brought it 
to her. He was so fond of hearing one 
of the stories that the book opened of 
itself at the places — Christ forgiving the 
thief on the cross. His little tongue, 
its language imperfect as yet, was never 
tired of asking questions : sometimes 
Mrs. Owen’s ingenuity was puzzled to 
answer. 

But it was not only that she read to 
him : that was the least part. The 
story over she would close the book, and 
talk to him, as on this d^y, in a loving 
winning gentle voice. Talk to him of 
heaven and the glorious happiness of 
those who should attain to it : of what 
he must do in this world, or rather try 
to do, if he would be one of them : of 
patience in long-suffering ; of loving 
kindness to others ; of self-sacrifice for 
their benefit ; of truth, and honor, and 
generosity : all in language suited to his 
(years, but quite clear and forcible. She* 
would impress upon him the great fact 
that God was ever near him, watching, 
guiding, hearing, seeing him : and she 
contrived so to imbue him with the 
belief in God’s loving care, that the 
child trusted to it beyond any earthly 
thing. When a stranger, spending the 
day with Sir Dene, once asked the child 
what he most wished for (expecting he 
would say some choice toy — a sword, a 
wheelbarrow, or a live rabbit), the 


answer was that he might be good and 
go to heaven. Sir Dene laughed and 
kissed him : the stranger thought what 
an odd little boy. Oh but these early 
lessons did him good service in after 
years ; without them he might never 
have borne the indignities cast on him. 

“Grandma, I’ll never be naughty. 
Never.” 

Mrs. Owen knew too well what the 
corruptions of the human heart are and 
the temptations of the world : she only 
smiled sadly in answer. 

“ Was mamma ever naughty ? ” 

“ Oh yes.” 

, “And papa?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ But they went to heaven ! ” 

“Ay, dear. They went very near 
together, too. The thief on the cross 
had been very, very naughty; but the 
moment he asked Jesus to forgive him, 
Jesus did, you see.” 

“ I’ll ask, if ever I am naughty,” 
said the child after a thoughtful pause. 
“ Grandpa Owen went too. And you’ll 
go, grandma. And I’ll go.” » 

“ But you must first grow up to be a 
man, and do a great, great deal of work 
in this world, and a great deal of good,” 
said Mrs. Owen. “ God sent us here 
to work.” 

“ Shall we work in heaven ? ” 

“ I don’t know. If we do, it will be 
pleasant work, happy work, angels’ 
work. Yes, Tom, I think w’e shall.” 

“ Have you had to do a great, great 
deal of work here, grandma ? ” 

“ Yes, a great deal. And I have had 
to bear a very great deal of sorrow: 
sorrow, and sickness, and heart-break. 
But for God’s loving help, Tom, I don’t 
think I could have got through it.” 

“ Shall I have a great deal ? ” 

“ You will be sure to have it, sooner 
or later. Don’t forget what I have told 
you, Tom — that God often sends the 
most to those he loves the best. You 
must be very brave, in all things.” 

“ Yes, I’ll be brave,” answered un- 
conscious Tom. 

The sitting was over. He jumped 
down, and ran to find Mary Barber. 
Mary Barber, preserving damsons in 
the back kitchen, and also sadly dis- 
turbed by William Owen’s communica- 
tion of the previous night, was too busy 
to have much leisure for Tom. Spread- 


VERY MUCH 

ing some of the hot jam upon a slice 
of bread, she told him to run into the 
garden and eat it. 

Tom was making for the garden in 
all dutiful obedience — never a more im- 
plicitly obedient child than he — but 
William Owen’s dog, Sharp, came bark- 
ing up to him in play. It would go 
into a fit of delight at sight of the 
child. The dog ran, and Tom after it, 
neglecting bis jam, until they reached 
the gates at Harebell Lane. Sharp 
bounded over the small one, and 
knocked down a little girl in a pink 
cotton bonnet and tattered frock. 
Tom, with inherent gallantry, ran to 
pull her up. 

It was that child, mentioned a few 
chapters ago, who had been born at 
the Trailing Indian the night of Rob- 
ert Owen’s disappearance. She was 
called Emma Geach. Before the moth- 
er was strong enough to leave the inn, 
Mrs. Black fell ill with rheumatic fever. 
The woman undertook to nurse her, 
and to do the work. The illness was a 
long one, some months in duration, and 
Mrs. Geach stayed on. After that she 
would go away and come again by fits 
and starts ; but did not take her child. 
The child had never been away from 
the inn yet ; for all that could be seen 
to the contrary, it seemed likely to be 
her permanent home. Mrs. Black liked 
the child, and would have kept her 
always. Black did not like her. He 
was almost savagely angry at her being 
left there : but gossip said, he did not 
dare to turn her out or insist too strong- 
ly on her removal, lest Mrs. Geach in 
revenge should betray some of the 
secret doings of the Trailing Indian. 

“ Don’t cry ; don’t cry,” said Tom. 
“ I’ll give you some bread-and-jam.” 

The child stood up at the tempting 
offer, and ceased roaring. Born six 
months before Tom, she looked at least 
a twelvemonth older : a tali child, with 
chubby red cheeks and eyes of so re- 
markably light a shade that they might 
have been called white, rather than blue. 
Tom tore asunder his piece of bread- 
and-jam, and gave her the largest half. 

Whether Miss Geach was starved at 
the Trailing Indian, or that damson 
jam was amidst luxuries unknown to 
her, certain it was that she gobbled up 
the piece in a wonderful fashion. It 


OF A WAIF. 105 

disappeared before Tom had finished 
his first bite. 

“I want some more,” she said, fix- 
ing her greedy little eyes on the rest. 
So Tom, never hesitating, broke it 
again, but not so deftly as before : the 
soft and the jam fell to one part, the 
dry crust, unjammed, to the other. He 
handed the best to the child, and nib- 
bled away at the dry crust. 

What’s your name ? ” asked Tom. 

“ Emma. What’s yours ? ” 

“ Tom. Where d’ you live ? ” 

“ Up there,” she answered, pointing 
along the lane. I’ve got a whistle at 
home : ’ll you come and see him ? ” 

Whistles are charmingly tempting 
things, and Tom yielded without ques- 
tion. The two children ran up the 
lane comparing notes. Tom’s Noah’s 
ark and picture-book, and a whip with 
a green handle ; against Miss Geach’s 
whistle. The dog, sharing the crust 
with Tom, leaped beside them. Randy 
Black met them close to the inn. 

“ Helloa ! — who have ye got here, 
you little wretch ! ” cried he to the 
girl. And she, who seemed to have 
plenty of assurance for her years (or, 
as the inmates of the Trailing Indian 
were wont to put it, “stock”) answered 
boldly, without sign of fear. 

“ I’m agoing to show him my whis- 
tle.” ' 

Black had spoken before he well gave 
a look to the boy ; immediately he 
knew him for the little grandson of 
Sir Dene Clan waring, and of the dead 
master of Harebell Farm. He had 
seen him abroad often enough since 
his babyhood, with Susan Cole or Sir 
Dene. 

“ This here baint no place for little 
gentlefolk, master; you’d best run home 
again. As to you, you young pig,” he 
added to the girl, “if you bring stray 
children here again. I’ll souse your ears 
in the horse trough.” 

“ Mayn’t I see the whistle ? ” asked 
Tom, who had not understood a word in 
ten. 

“Wait, will yer, cried independent 
Miss Emma to Tom. “ I’ll bring him 
out.” 

Black did not interfere to prevent it. 
He was gazing down at the boy, and 
whistling softly. 

“ You’re the very cut o’ your father,” 


106 


DENE HOLLOW. 


said he. Same eyes, same hair, same 
face. He’d ha’ made a second Sir Dene 
in looks : so’ll you. Not bad uns, them 
eyes o’ yourn.” 

All the little boy’s answer to this was 
to look up at the man with these self- 
same eyes. Even Black, the hardened, 
could but note, you see, their kindly na- 
ture, so full of sweetness. 

^‘What’s your name?” ho went on, 
Ijss roughly than he was given to speak. 

Tom.” 

Baint it Dene ? Nor Geofifry ? ” 

“ It’s Tom',” repeated the boy. 

“ Where’s your hat ? ” 

“ I left it at grandma’s.” 

The ostler appeared in the yard, and 
called out some question to his master 
about corn. As Black went away to 
give the answer, Emma ran out with the 
whistle, whistling shrilly with all her 
might. Black b^ade her hush her 
noise,” and gave her a box on the ears, 
which sent her staggering and threw 
down the whistle. Perhaps she was 
used to be boxed, for she did not cry or 
complain : only waited till he was a few 
paces from her, and then picked up the 
whistle. A rough wooden toy with 
streaks of paint across it, that Mrs. 
Black had bought of a man at the door 
for a halfpenny. 

Had it been of ivory, mounted in 
gold, it could not have seemed more 
precious to little Tom. He whistled, 
and she whistled, the two taking it by 
turns : long discordant shrieks enough 
to frighten the cows, grazing over the 
way in William Owen’s field. Mrs. 
Black came to the door to see what 
the cause of the noise might be. A 
poor, pale woman more shrunken and 
meek than ever since her long bout of 
rheumatic fever — which had left her fin- 
gers contracted. Young though the girl 
was, she was already of use in the house : 
and perhaps that was one of the reasons 
why Black did not insist upon her re- 
moval. Mrs. Black could not have done 
the entire work now, and a child was a 
safer inmate than an older woman might 
be. 

Emma, what boy’s that ? ” demand- 
ed Mrs. Black — just as Black had done. 

‘‘ His name’s Tom.” 

Mrs. ■ Black came slowly out. Her 
feet were affected as well as her fingers : 
in short, she was now not much better 


than a cripple. She had begun to talk 
to the children pleasantly enough when 
Black came back and sent the group 
flying : Mrs. Black and the girl in doors : 
Tom off, down the lane. 

“ And don’t you get fond o’ prowling 
up this way, young&ter j or may be the 
kidnappers ’ll lay hold on ye,” was his 
parting injunction to Tom. “ There’s 
lots on ’em at this ’ere house some- 
times.” 

Tom ran along the lane with all the 
speed of his little legs. He was consti- 
tutionally brave j and by the time he 
turned the corner, the kidnappers were 
forgotten. On either side the lane 
blackberries grew in abundance, and 
Tom helped himself at will : scratching 
his hands, and staining his face and pin- 
afore crimson. What with the marks 
left by the jam and the running juice of 
the blackberries, Tom might have had 
his portrait taken as something to be 
stared at. In this condition he was 
pounced upon by Susan Cole. 

Susan at once administered a couple 
of shakings. The one for going off on 
the loose ; it was her own expression ; 
the other for the crimson state he had 
put himself into. Tom, full of contri- 
tion, looked down at his hands and pina- 
fore : and then offered Susan some choice 
berries squeezed up in his fingers. Susan, 
instead of accepting the treat with gra- 
titude, flung up his hand and sent the 
blackberries flying. 

“ You ondacious, naughty child ! 
Where’s your hat ? ” 

‘‘ It’s on the table at grandma’s.” 

Pulling him along by the hand to the 
Farm, Susan Cole dashed into the back 
kitchen, where Joan happened to be 
washing, and lathered his face and hands 
well with soapsuds. Then she got his 
hat and took him off again. 

“Now you look here. Master Tom,” 
she said, as they crossed the lane and 
entered the back gates — “ if you take to 
go off by yourself, nobody knows where, 
a frightening me into fiddlestrings a*nd 
getting yourself into this shocking pickle, 
I’ll run away and leave you. I won’t 
stay at the Dene no longer to serve an 
ungrateful little boy.” 

Tom was very quiet during the after- 
noon, playing with Noah’s ark and the 
animals, and giving no trouble to any- 
body. The servants were busy that day, 


VERY MUCH OF A WAIF. 


107 


for company was coming to the Dene. 
Lady Lydia Clan waring, the wife of Cap- 
tain Clanwaring, Sir Dene’s youngest 
son, had just landed from India, with her 
three children, and her arrival at the 
Dene might happen at any hour : to-day, 
to-niorrow, the next day. Sir Dene ex- 
pected her to make a long visit, and 
looked forward with pleasure to an event 
that would break the monotony of his 
home. 

Sir Dene reached home for dinner : 
kept it waiting in fact. Tom’s quick 
ears, on the alert for the sound, heard 
the horses’ hoofs, ran out, and met them 
halfway down the avenue. The groom 
behind dismounted ; lifted the child up 
in front of his master; and Tom was 
conveyed back in triumph. 

Master Tom will dine with me,” 
said Sir Dene to Gander, as be led him 
indoors. 

So the child sat beside the baronet ; 
chattering, however, more than eating, 
for he had just had his tea. No longer 
the young vagabond all blackberry 
stains, scouring the lanes at will, bare- 
headed and bare-armed ; but a beautiful 
little prince in crimson velvet, with a 
falling plaited frill of. snow-white cam- 
bric on his neck, and his bright curls 
hanging down in a shower of gold. 
Susan Cole took care to dress him 
always toward evening, in case Sir 
Dene should ask for him. 

“ Emma’s got a whistle, grandpa,” 
said Tom, when they were left alone at 
dessert. 

“ A whistle, has she,” replied the 
baronet, not in the least knowing, or 
caring, whom ^‘Emma” might be. 

‘‘ A nice big whistle all green and 
blue, grandpa. I wish I had one.” 

“ Tell Susan to go to Hurst Leet to- 
morrow and buy you one,” was the 
answer of Sir Dene. 

“ I’m afraid she won’t. She’s angry 
with me.” 

Oh, indeed ! Have you been a 
naughty boy ? ” 

“ Yes. I made my hands and face 
dirty with the blackberries, and spoilt 
my pinafore.” 

Sir Dene laughed : a very venial 
offence, this. There’s another walnut 
for you, Tom. Peel it well, you rascal.” 

Tom eat away at his walnut, peeling 
it first. ‘‘Some more water, please, 
grandpa.” 


Sir Dene poured out some water. He 
was sensible enough to know that wine 
and children were best apart. 

“ Mary Barber gave me some bread 
and jam, grandpa. Sharp knocked 
Emma down, and I — ^ — ’’ 

A commotion outside stopped the 
history. A chaise-and-four (the sound 
was easily distinguished from that of a 
chaise-and-pair) had clattered up to the 
front entrance. Dogs barked ; servants 
ran ; Gander rushed into the dining- 
room. 

“ Sir Dene,” said he, “ I’ll lay any- 
thing as it’s my Lady Lydia come.” 
And Sir Dene went into the hall. 

It was Lady Lydia Clanwaring. A 
tall, meagre woman, two or three years 
past thirty, with a pale, discontented 
face, sharp features, keen, restless black 
eyes, and thin compressed lips. Her 
children followed her, black-eyed and 
black-haired ; the eldest, a girl, seven 
years old, two boys, six and five. As if 
fatigued with the journey — they had 
posted up from Portsmouth — Lady 
Lydia sunk on a chair as soon as she 
entered the dining-room. The children 
ran to the table, and stood eyeing 
eagerly the good things on it. 

“ They’d like some dessertj. Gander,” 
spoke Sir Dene. “ Bring plates.” 

Hats and bonnets were thrown on the 
floor. The children dragged chairs to 
the table, and seated themselves without 
further ceremony. Tom, who had shyly 
retreated to the background at the large 
influx, remained unseen. 

“ Take care that everything is 
brought in, Dovet,” screamed out Lady 
Lydia to her maid, in the same hard, 
shrill voice that had used rather to grate 
on Sir Dene’s ears in India — for he 
liked that most excellent thing, a sweet 
voice in woman. “We must have had 
twenty small packages at least, inside, 
of one sort or another.” 

When the bustle had somewhat sub- 
sided Sir Dene inquired after his son, 
who remained in India. 

“ Captain Clanwaring was very well 
when we left him, but as cross as a 
bear,” replied Lady Lydia. It was a 
peculiarity of hers that she always called 
her husband “ Captain Clanwaring.” 

“ It is a wearing life out there : and last 
season was a frightfully hot one. No, 
Jarvis, you can’t have more wine; you 
are going to have supper. Good gra- 


108 


DENE HOLLOW. 


cions, Louisa, don’t crack that walnut 
with your teeth! Jarvis, crack it for 
your sister.” 

“ Crack it for her, Otto,” said Master 
Jarvis imperiously, to his brother. And 
the younger one cracked the walnut. 

Captain Clan waring says there’s no 
chance of his getting leave. None. 
Just now ” 

The words died away on Lady Lydia’s 
tongue. She had turned from her chil- 
dren to face Sir Dene again ; and 
stopped in utter astonishment. A beau- 
tiful child, habited in crimson velvet, 
with blue eyes and golden hair, was 
leaning familiarly against Sir Dene, had 
stolen his little hand within his. What 
child could it be ? 

“ Who is that ? ” demanded Lady 
Lydia. 

“ It is my little grandson,” said Sir 
Dene. 

Little grandson ! That John Clan- 
waring the heir had an infant son in 
long clothes. Lady Lydia knew. There 
could be no other grandson. She 
thought she had heard, as the French 
express it, a tort et k travers. 

“ WAai grandson ? Who is he. Sir 
Dene ? ” 

Sir Dene answered by taking the 
child on his knee. “ Tell the lady what 
your name is, and who you are.” 

It’s Tom,” said the child. 

“ What else ? ” continued Sir Dene. 

‘‘ Tom Clanwaring.” 

‘‘Well — now tell who you are.” 

“ I’m grandpapa’s little boy.” 

Sir Dene, pleased with the words, 
kissed him fondly. Lady Lydia knitted 
her brow and sent forth some keen 
glances from her black and restless 
eyes. 

“ He is the son of my dear boy, Geof- 
fry, who’s dead and gone. Lady Lydia. 
Poor Geoff left him to me as a legacy.” 

It took Lady Lydia a minute or two 
to digest the words — and she did not 
fully comprehend, even then. That 
Geofifry Clanwaring had made some low 
marriage before his death, and so 
brought disgrace on himself and the 
Clanwaring family, she knew.’ John 
the heir had sent out a version of the 
calamity to India : Captain Clanwaring 
had been quite as indignant as John, 
and at once wrote back his opinion of 
matters to Sir Dene. But, to see this 


fair aristocratic child, aristocratic in 
dress as in looks, sitting on Sir Dene’s 
knee, fondled by him, and evidently at 
home at Beechhurst Dene, was some- 
thing so entirely opposite to the ideas 
Lady Lydia had formed upon the affair, 
that she did not quite at once recover 
her equanimity. 

“ Does he — live here ? ” she asked in 
condemning amazement. 

“ Oh dear yes. He has no other 
home.” 

“ Where’s his mother, praj^ ? ” 

“ Tell where,” said Sir Dene, to the 
intelligent, listening boy. 

“ Mamma’s dead,” said Tom. She 
and papa went to heaven.*^ 

“ Ay. They went within three 
months of each other ; the same grave, 
hardly closed, received them both. Lady 
Lydia.” 

And to her ladyship’s infinite aston- 
ishment, she saw that Sir Dene’s eyes, 
bent on the little boy’s head as he spoke, 
had filled with tears. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

GUESTS AT BEECHHURST DENE. 

The handsomest guest-chamber that 
Beechhurst Dene afforded, with a small 
cheerful sitting-room opening from it, 
had been assigned by the servants to 
Lady Lydia Clanwaring. The title 
sounded imposing in their ears. The 
heir’s wife was really of better family, 
and an heiress to boot; but she was 
only plain Mrs. Clanwaring : Lady 
Lydia was Lady Lydia, and received 
homage accordingly. 

The Lady Lydia Clanwaring was the 
daughter of a poor and obscure Irish 
peer; she had absolutely not a shilling 
of her own in the world. Her father, 
Mr. Riley, had succeeded to the title 
suddenly. Perhaps it was the long 
fight with poverty previous to that, that 
had rendered her so sharp in worldly in- 
terests, so mean in petty details, so 
grasping in everything where money 
was concerned. Mr. Riley had never 
expected to come to the title : when he 
did so his daughters were' grown up : 
until then, they had all led a scrambling 
sort of life, their time passed in one 
long scuffle, trying to make both ends 


GUESTS AT BEECHHURST DENE. 


109 


meet ; sometimes in a remote corner of 
Ireland, sometimes in a cheap conti- 
nental town. After his succession, the 
Earl was not much better off, for the 
estate, never worth much, had been im- 
poverished until the income derived 
from it was of almost nominal value. 
One of Lydia Riley’s sisters had mar- 
ried an officer in an Indian regiment. 
Lady Lydia went out to stay with them, 
and there met Sir Dene’s son. Lieuten- 
ant Clanwaring. Stationed in a quiet 
place where there was but little society, 
they were thrown much together, and 
one day Lieutenant Clanwaring made 
her an offer : or at least, what she chose 
to consider one ; and in point of fact, he 
said more than he could in honor retract 
from. Be you very sure she did not let 
him retract. He would have laughed it 
off, but found it could not. He had 
never meant it, he said to himself : it 
had been said in thoughtlessness, in the 
incaution of the moment : but he had to 
abide by it. How very many more men 
are there, who have been caught in a 
like manner ! Mr. Clanwaring submit- 
ted to his fate with a good grace, and 
made no sign. Save for a word he let 
drop in Gander’s hearing one night that 
he came to his father’s rather shaky 
from the mess dinner, he never let it be 
known that the Lady Lydia was not his 
best choice. He was but a boy, barely 
of age : she was three or four years older 
in years, and half a century in depth. 
So they were married ; and until now 
had lived together in India. Lady 
Lydia had had time to get heartily sick 
and tired of an Indian life, and of mak- 
ing the best of a narrow income. Sir 
Dene did not allow much to his youngest 
son j at the same age he, himself, had 
’been obliged to make his pay suffice ; and 
he thought it no hardship for his son to 
do it. Weary of it altogether. Lady 
Lydia determined to have a change. She 
told her husband that the time had come 
when it was necessary the children 
should go home, both for their health’s 
sake and that their education should be 
entered upon. Captain Clanwaring 
agreed. He was tired of it, too j tired of 
his wife’s fractiousness, and of the trou- 
blesome and noisy children. He wrote to 
his father, asking him to receive them 
for a time, until suitable schools should 
be fixed on ; and Sir Dene acquiesced 


with pleasure. On this, the first night 
of their arrival. Lady Lydia told Sir 
Dene she should remain about a year in 
Europe visiting various friends in Eng- 
land and Ireland ; and then return to 
her husband. In her private heart she 
cherished a very different plan — never 
to go back at all, but to establish her 
footing and her home at Beechhurst 
Dene. And if there was one woman 
more capable than most other women of 
carrying out her scheme persistently 
and bringing it to bear, that woman 
was the Lady Lydia Clanwaring. 

All the way home, amidst the many 
months’ discomfort of the sailing ship — 
there were no fleet steamers in those 
days — had she been nursing her eggs 
and reckoning her chickens. “ Sir 
Dene has neither kith nor kin ; he has 
no grandchild to make much of,” she 
would repeat to herself, “for John Clan- 
waring and his wife do not go near 
Beechhurst Dene. The field lies open 
and clear for me. I will be the place’s 
mistress ; my children will be their 
grandfather’s indulged pets and play- 
things.” 

But Lady Lydia, to her intense aston- 
ishment, found that Sir Dene had a 
grandchild near him, located in his home, 
allowed to climb his knee at will, alto- 
gether made as much of as she had in- 
tended her own children should be. 
More especially had she cherished this 
intention for her eldest son. He was 
beloved by her in that inordinate degree 
that mothers do sometimes love their 
children. It is said that like clings to 
like. Certain it was, this young Jarvis 
Clanwaring was remarkably like his 
mother, in' person as in temper. He 
had the same pale, sharp face, the keen, 
restless black eyes, with the sly look in 
them ; in disposition he had the same 
crafty depth, and the secretive, unpleas- 
ant temper. The younger one, Otto, 
was a dull, plodding boy, worth ten of 
his brother — who put upon him always. 
Erom the moment Lady Lydia Clanwar- 
ing saw the child, Tom, on Sir Dene’s 
knee, she resolved that he should lose 
his footing there if clever manoeu'^ring 
could accomplish it. 

She stood at the window of her bed- 
room the following morning, looking 
out on the early sun. Lady Lydia was 
by far too restless natured a Woman to 


110 


DENE HOLLOW. 


lie in bed late, even on the day follow- 
ing a tiring journey ; she liked to be 
up and doing. She had just wound 
her coal-black-hair in coils round her 
head, and was dressed all but her gown. 
The fine panorama of scenery lay be- 
yond, with its green fields, its woods, 
its gleams of water, and its sparkling 
of dwellings; Hurst Leet, the little 
village was near, the fair city of Wor- 
cester more distant : all pleasant things 
to look upon under the blue sky of the 
autumn morning. But to Lady Lydia 
they were as nothing. She looked with 
covetous eyes at the park beneath ; at 
the lodge at the end of the avenue ; 
at whatsoever pertained to Beechhurst 
Dene. “A grand old place,’’ she re- 
peated to herself, “ and I’ll reign here, 
its mistress.” 

The door opened, and she turned 
sharply round. It was Dovet, the 
maid : she had reddish hair, and eyes 
of a fine green, and wore a buff ging- 
ham gown with white frills, and was just 
as crafty as her mistress. Lady Lydia 
had lost no time. On the previous eve- 
ning when she went upstairs to take 
off her things before supper, the vision 
of the fair child in his crimson velvet 
dress clouding her mind, she called Do- 
vet, and charged her to find out all 
particulars attending the boy — how he 
came to be there at all, and why. Do- 
vet liked nothing better than to ferret 
out secrets for herself or her mistress : 
to do her justice, she was in that re- 
spect a faithful servant. 

^‘Well, Dovet,” began Lady Lydia, 
have you got at any of the circum- 
stances ? ” 

I flatter myself that I have obtain- 
ed a few, my lady,” minced Dovet, who 
was as full of conceit and affectation as 
any fine dame of the day could be. 
“ It was quite a error of judgment to 
have allowed the child to come here at 
all.” 

“ The mother was a frightfully low 
person, I know.” 

“ Oh, frightful low, my lady. They 
live at a farm near ; quite working peo- 
ple ; an inferior set altogether. The 
girl was pretty, and Mr. Geoffry was 
drawn in to marry her one day when 
Sir Dene was safe away in London. A 
fine uproar there was over it. Sir 
Dene posted down from London with 


Mr. Clanwaring, and a aunt posted 
over in her carriage from somewhere 
nearer. They turned Mr. Geoffry out 
of the house ; kicked him out, I be- 
lieve, my lady; and he went off to 
lodgings with *the girl. Sir Dene re- 
lented a little later, and let him live in 
a cottage on the estate and made him 
his servant as bailiff. The girl died 
when the child was born, and the day 
after she was interred, Mr. Geoffry came 
home here again (like his impudence, 
it seems to me, my lady) and brought 
the infant with him wrapped up in a 
shawl. And here the infant have been 
ever since.” 

Dovet had got her tale tolerably cor- 
rect, you see. Eortune favored her. 
An under housemaid, Patty, who was 
under orders to leave — through a quar- 
rel with Susan Cole, in which Susan’s 
part had been taken, and hers not, and 
in consequence of which Susan was just 
now worse to her than poison — had 
fallen in Dovet’s way. In the woman^s 
sore feeling she had put the worst col- 
oring on the past, as connected with 
Geoffry Clanwaring and his wife, sim- 
ply because Susan had been their ser- 
vant. Bevenge makes the best of us 
unjust. 

‘‘The girl’s people live near, do 
they ? ” remarked Lady Lydia, when 
she had listened to what Dovet had to 
say. 

“ Quite close, my lady. . It’s a old 
farm-house, right opposite the back 
gates here, just across the lane. The 
little child is running there everlasting.” 

“ Then why is it that the child can- 
not be with them altogether ? ” was 
Lady Lydia’s indignant rejoinder. 

“ Why indeed, my lady ! ” 

Lady Lydia said nothing further. 
Perhaps she thought all the more. 
That this low-born child, this inter- 
loper, should certainly lose his footing 
at Beechhurst Dene and be got out of 
it, she fully resolved. But she knew 
that she must proceed to work cautious- 
ly; feel her way, as it were. Very 
smooth and smiling was her face as she 
went down to breakfast. 

“Will you allow me to preside. Sir 
Dene ? ” she asked, when her children 
were seated. 

“ I’m sure I wish you would — if you 
don’t mind taking the trouble ” hearti- 




GUESTS AT BEECHHURST DENE. 


Ill 


ly replied Sir Dene — who, averse to ex- 
ertion himself, as many who have lived 
long in India are, had been about to 
teli Gander to stop and pour out the 
coffee. So Lady Lydia took her place 
at the table’s head — and kept it for the 
future. 

In came Susan Cole. “ Is Master 
Tom to take his breakfast here this 
morning, Sir Dene ? ” 

What d’ye say ? ” cried Sir Dene, 
who had not caught the words, as he 
turned his head to the speaker. 

Master Tom is wanting to have his 
breakfast with you. Sir Dene. He 
knows, you see, sir, that the other chil- 
dren are here.” 

“ To be sure : let him come by all 
means,” was Sir Dene’s answer. And 
the lady, busy with the coffee cups, did 
not like the glad and ready voice it was 
spoken in. 

So Tom came. In a cotton frock this 
morning, with his clean round brown 
Holland blouse over it. Susan placed 
his chair at Sir Dene’s elbow, and put 
down his basin of bread-and-milk. 

“ Go and say good morning to your 
cousins, my peetty one,” said Sir Dene ; 
and my lady coughed a harsh and re- 
sentful cough at the word “ cousins.” 
Tom held out his little hand to them in 
succession ; and each shook it in silence, 
staring at the boy as if he were a wild 
Indian. The children had not brought 
much manners with them. Then Susan 
lifted him into his seat ; and Sir Dene 
kissed him, and stroked his pretty hair. 

It happened that Sir Dene had to go 
to Worcester that morning, to attend a 
public meeting. His phaeton came to 
the door at eleven o’clock. Lady Lydia 
stepped out to admire the fine horses. 

“ 1 want to go, ma,” said Jarvis. “ I 
shall go.” 

Lady Lydia appealed to Sir Dene 
with a sweet smile. “ You will take 
him, will you not. Sir Dene.” 

Can’t to-day,” replied Sir Dene. 

Should not know what to do with him 
in Worcester.” 

The lady’s face clouded — threatening 
signs of one of her ugly passions. “ Oh, 
do indulge him this once. Sir Dene,” 
pleaded the mother. “ Alljs strange to 
him here as yet, poor dear little fellow.” 

But Sir Dene was not one to do a 
thing against his will. On the whole 


he was not fond of children — Tom ex- 
cepted— ^and very much disliked to be 
put to any personal trouble with them. 

“Very sorry, Lady Lydia, but I am 
going in on business. The meeting 
may last for hours : it would hardly do 
for — what’s the lad’s name — Jarvey — to 
be left in the streets. The coachman 
can drive them all out to-morrow.” 

Sir Dene got in, taking the reins, the 
groom stepped up beside him, and away 
they went. Master Jarvey’s first move 
was to fling himself on his back on the 
gravel and kick and howl as if the deuce 
had got inside him. The words, please, 
are Gander’s, who was looking on. 
His next was to spring on his feet, furi- 
ously tear up a handful of gravel and 
fling it after the carriage. 

“ That's nice bringings up,” cried 
Susan Cole critically in Gander’s ear. 

“ Her bringings up ! ” retorted Gan- 
der, with a side nod in the direction of 
Lady Lydia. “ Don’t think she knows 
much about that. One can’t expect 
nothing from a pig but to grunt.” 

“ You don’t like her,” remarked Susan. 
“ No more don’t 1.” 

“ I didn’t like her in India, nor no- 
body else did : young Mr. Clanwaring 
in course excepted,” added Gander, with 
a curious twist of the mouth. “ And I 
don’t like Dovet neither — birds of a 
feather, they be. Dovet had got her 
fox’s nose inside my pantry this morn- 
ing, whispering with Patty : I’d like to 
know the reason why.” 

Lady Lydia, smarting under the 
rebuff Sir Dene had given her boy, who 
was idolized by her as no other human 
being ever could or would be in this 
world, retired to her rooms in dudgeon, 
where Dovet proceeded to unpack, with 
Susan Cole to help. By and by. Lady 
Lydia put on her bonnet and shawl, and 
strolled out to the back entrance to look 
about her. Not a corner of the passage 
but she took in with her observant eye ; 
not a bush of shrubs outside, but she 
noted. Gander, coming to the 'door to 
shake a table-cloth, saw her with her 
nose flattened against the glass doors of 
Sir Dene’s parlor, peering in. With 
independent ease, Gander did not seem 
in a hurry to retreat again ; he leisurely 
stood and shook, and shook and stood. 

“ This seems to be quite a business- 
room, Gander,” she remarked, stepping 


112 


DENE HOLLOW. 


back. What a quantity of papers lie 
about ! ” 

“ It is Sir Dene’s business parlor, my 
lady.’’ 

“ His business parlor ! What has 
Sir Dene Clanwaring to do with busi- 
ness ? ” 

‘‘ With a big estate like this, there’s 
a host o’ business to be transacted ; a 
sight o’ matters to be done. I know 
this much, my lady : it pretty nigh 
drives the master at times off his head. 
Dell, the bailiff — it’s one h^ took on 
after poor Mr. Geoffry died — ain’t o’ 
much good, as it seems to me, for folks 
come up here all the same a pestering 
Sir Dene. — Where do them two paths 
lead to, 3^ou ask, my lady : why the one 
straight afore us goes direct to Harebell 
Lane ; t’other on our right, the privet 
walk, ’ll take you round to the front o’ 
the house.” 

Lady Lydia, avoiding the privet walk, 
chose the straight one before her, and 
arrived at the gates opening to Harebell 
Lane. Bemembering Dovet’s words, 
she looked out for the Farm : but the 
opposite hedge was high, and hid it. 
She took her way up the lane on an 
exploring tour, and reached in time the 
Trailing Indian. 

Two children — dirty little ragamuf- 
fins upon whom the Lady Lydia did not 
vouchsafe to cast a second glance — stood 
near, blowing alternately at a whistle. 
The one ran up to show it to her in his 
sociable nature. 

Isn’t it nice ? It’s Emma’s.” 

To Lady Lydia’s unbounded astonish- 
ment, she recognised Tom. But Tom 
in unmitigated grief, so far as his clothes 
were concerned. In the busy state of 
the Dene that morning, and of Susan 
Cole, Tom, neglected and looked askance 
at by the Indian children, took the op- 
portunity to run off as usual, to Mrs. 
Owen’s. In the lane, however, he was 
waylaid by Emma Geach, and that 
young lady seduced him to stay and 
play with her. Companionship is sweet. 
Having tasted of it once, she was no 
doubt hankering after it again, and had 
come off surreptitiously to find Tom. 
It is always the woman, we are assured, 
who seduce the men. Eunning up to 
the Trailing Indian in search of the 
whistle, which she had not brought out, 
Tom fell down by the pond, and plas- 
tered himself with green mud. Emma, 


by way of consoling him, fed him with 
blackberries, and — there he was, face, 
hands, hair, and pinafore, a picturesque 
compound of red, and green, and muddy 
disreputability. Lady Lydia turned 
her outraged eyes on the other child. 
An unmistakable ragamuffin, she, of 
the lowest type : clothes coarse, shabby, 
torn ; toes out of shoes, socks down at 
heel. 

“ Is that your sister ? ” demanded 
Lady Lydia, her ideas somewhat con- 
fused. 

“ It’s Emma,” repeated Tom. 

Grandpapa said Susan was to buy me 
a whistle like this, but Susan has not 
got time to-day.” 

Every nerve within her revolted at 
the word “ grandpapa,” as, used by this 
child, of Sir Dene. ‘‘ Where does 
‘ Emma ’ live ? ” she asked. 

I lives there,” burst forth the girl, j 
with all her native “ stock,” as she ^ 
pointed to the Trailing Indian. 

Lady Lydia cast her eyes on the inn, 
picked up her skirts, and walked on. 

“ Low-lived little beast ! ” she exclaimed 
of Tom, not caring whether the road- 
side inn bore much relationship to him, 
or none. “ And it is this child of dis- 
graceful connections who has been al- 
lowed to get a footing at Beechhurst 
Dene ! ” 

The high road, running crossways 
just beyond the Trailing Indian, did not 
seem to promise much uf interest for 
Lady Lydia, and she turned back. The 
girl, Emma, had been called into the 
inn then, whistle and all, and the door 
shut. Tom, left alone, ran along by the 
side of Lady Lydia, unconscious that he 
was doing wrong : did she not belong to 
the Dene ? 

What- do you mean by following 
me ? ” she 'Stopped to ask. “ Why don’t 
you go home ? ” 

I’m going to grandma’s,” said Tom. 

It’s down here. Mary Barber will 
wash me.” 

He spoke timidly. The angry face 
had a look in it that frightened him. 
Children have keen instincts, and Tom 
drew behind. At the turning of the 
lane, he suddenly darted before her, and 
into the arms of a young man wlio was 
advancing. A gentle -faced pleasant 
young man, who wore working clothes. 
It was William Owen. 

Oh, Tom ! what a mess you are 


GUESTS AT BEE 

in!” he cried — and then took off his 
hat to Lady Lydia as she passed. 

Tom repeated that he was going to 
ask Mary Barber to “ wash ” him. Mr. 
Owen put him down, and told him to 
make haste about it. 

Who was that ? ” Lady Lydia con- 
descended to question of Tom, when he 
came on. 

‘‘It was Uncle William,” said the child. 
“ He gave me a little boat one day.” 

Lady Lydia tossed her disdainful 
head. Uncle William! — a common 
working clodhopper ! And this objec- 
tionable child, with the low connections 
and the low tastes and companionships, 
was allowed to call Sir Dene Clanwaring 
his grandfather, and to have his home at 
Beechhurst Dene ! 

The child — the offences of the morn- 
ing condoned by Susan — appeared at 
dessert again in his costly velvet dress — 
only this time it was blue velvet instead 
of crimson. Susan Cole, in conjunction 
with Miss Beynolds, the noted mantua- 
maker on the Parade at Worcester, had 
been allowed to order attire for him after 
the pride of her own heart, unchecked 
by her master. It was with diflSculty 
Lady Lydia kept her temper down to a 
decent show of tranquillity. She had 
assumed the head of the table, as she 
had at breakfast, sitting at the opposite 
end to Sir Dene. *But the temper, bub- 
bling up within her with* strange fierce- 
ness, betrayed her into an incaution she 
was not often guilty of — that of speak- 
ing at the wrong time. 

After the children were gone to bed, 
and she had been in the great drawing- 
room a long while alone. Sir Dene came 
in from the dinner-table. It was the 
custom in those days for gentlemen to 
drink a great deal of wine : ^r Dene 
did not exceed as some did ; but he 
liked a generous glass. To day, how- 
ever, the reason of his tardy sitting was, 
that, fatigued with his tiresome meeting 
in the city, he had dropped asleep at the 
table. Lady Lydia, nursing her rage 
all that while at the prospect of wha't 
she was pleased to term her children’s 
wrongs in having found a supplanter in 
Sir Dene’s affections, was just ifi prime 
order, and entered at once upon the bat- 
tle. Very quietly, softly, craftily, and 
tenderly — just as though she were a 
sweet angel of consideration, and had no 
7 


CHHURST DENE. II3 

interests in the world at heart, save Sir 
Dene’s a.nd Tom’s. 

Tom’s sad connections were hinted at ; 
Tom’s over low predilections j Tom’s 
vagabond state out of doors — as witness 
how and with whom she had found him 
that day. Por such a child Beechhurst 
' Dene was not a suitable home, she gent- 
ly pointed out : and — would it not be 
better to send him to his grandmother 
Owen’s ? ” ' 

“ Send him to his grandmother 
Owen’s ? ” repeated Sir Dene, when he 
had gathered what all this was driving 
at — and he spoke a little explosively, as 
it seemed to his wary li.stener. “ Why 
what do you mean, my lady ? ” 

“ Even at the cost of having to pay a 
slight yearly sum for his maintenance. 
Dear Sir Dene, I only suggest it in the 
child’s best interests.” 

“His interests can be taken better 
care of at Beechhurst Dene than they 
would be with bis mother’s family,” re- 
turned the baronet. “ You must be 
dreaming, Lady Lydia.” 

“ I fear, unfortunately, that I am 
rather wider awake in regard to this 
matter than you can be. Sir Dene,” she 
said, with the sweetest smile her face 
could put on. “ Were the child to re- 
main here, he would grow up with no- 
tions ridiculously unsuited to his future 
position.” 

“ And what do you fancy his future 
position will be?” retorted Sir Dene, 
his temper getting up. “The child is 
my grandson, Lady Lydia : you don’t 
suppose I shall turn him out in the 
world to follow the plough’s tail, do 
you ? ” 

“ Oh, Sir Dene ! the plough’s tail ! ” 
she simpered. 

“ Well, Lady Lydia, what is it that 
you mean ? ” he asked. 

And then, vexed in Her turn, she said 
openly that the child ought never to 
have been at the Dene — ought to be 
sent from it without loss of time. 

“Never, while I live and am master 
here. Lady Lydia,” was the firm answer. 
“ I gave my hand on it to my dear son, 
Geoftry.” 

“ It is scarcely behaving fairly to your 
other sons. Sir Dene. To Mr. Clanwar- 
ing’s well-born wife ; to me. The young 
woman was so very obscure and low a 
person.” 


114 


DENE HOLLOW. 


“ She was one of the best and loveli- 
est girls the world ever saw — I can tell 
you that, my lady/^ returned Sir Dene, 
in choler. 

“ But so very low, I say. Were her 
friends not able or willing to receive the 
child he should have been sent to the 
parish. It is really not becoming to 
have him here — and to make much of 
him as though he were a son of the 
house. Pardon me, dear Sir Dene, I 
am only speaking in all our interests, 
his included.” 

Very likely you are, my lady : but 
as your notions and mine don’t agree in 
this, the subject may be dropped. Geof- 
fry was my favorite son : and this little 
son of his has taken his place in my 
home.” 

Sir Dene rang the bell as he spoke — 
a loud peal that startled Gander. Su- 
san Cole was wanted. 

What is this I hear ? ” thundered 
Sir Dene when she appeared. That 
you suffer Master Clanwaring to run 
wild in the lanes and play with any vag- 
abond child he may pick up ! Take 
you better care of him in future, Susan 
Cole : or else you may cut your service 
short at the Dene.” 

And the Lady Lydia, smoothing her 
fingers over her cambric handkerchief 
at the fire^ found she had spoken some- 
what too soon. Her rebellious heart 
rose up within her, and had to be forci- 
bly controlled to silence. “ Master 
Clanwaring ! ” 


CHAPTER XVITI. 

FRIGHTENING THE FONY,. 

The June roses were in bloom, shed- 
ding their perfume on the air, and the 
hot midsummer sun lay on the smooth 
highways, on the plains sweet with the 
drjdng hay, on the ripening corn. 

On never a smoother and fairer road 
to look at than the one you have so often 
heard of. Dene Hollow. The lad on his 
pony going down it, Otto Clanwaring, 
must have expected a pleasant ride on 
its white and level surface. Running 
after the pony, as it turned out of the 
gates of Beechhurst Dene, came Jarvis 
Clanwaring. And, standing with his 
back against the fence, was Tom. 


Time has grown older, and the boys have 
grov/n with it. Tom is nearly seven 
now, Otto nine, Jarvis ten. 

There is not, except for this, much 
change in them. Jarvis is thin ani 
wirey as ever, with the same dark, sly 
eyes : Otto is rather fat, dark, and sto- 
lid ; Tom has the same golden hair, the 
frank face, the kindly, thoughtful, rich 
blue eyes. The three boys are at school, 
but not at the same one ; for Lady 
Lydia Clanwaring (putting it upon the 
score of difference in years) had success- 
fully contrived that Tom should not con- 
taminate the same establishment that 
her boys honored. They have come 
home for the midsummer holidays ; and 
are tired with the long morning spent 
in the hay-field. But that Jarvis is ex- 
cessively tired, and has besides some 
appointment connected with ferrets, he 
would have taken the pony for himselfi 
It is one that Sir Dene keeps for the 
boys’ use when they are at home, and is 
called Whitestar from a w’hite star on its 
forehead. 

Tom is standing perfectly still against 
the fence, somewliere about the exact 
spot on which had once stood the dwell 
ing of the Widow Barber. His elbows 
are pushed back on the lower rail, and 
he is in a brown study, watching the 
approach of the pony and its rider. 
Gander had told him he might go out 
on the pony that afternoon : but, just 
as he was about to mount, the two elder 
ones ordered him away, and took it 
themselves. Tom feels* no resentment ; 
only a little disappointment : it does not 
occur to him that he is ill-used, for he 
has become accustomed to give, up to his 
cousins in all things,^ just as a servant 
yields to his masters. 

Otto put the pony into a gentle can- 
ter, and ^came on ; Jarvis was following 
slowly on the pathway. As the pony 
passed Tom, it swerved violently, as if 
startled, dashed off at a gallop and 
threw its rider. Jarvis rushed up in a 
fury. 

“ You young hound ! ” he cried, seiz- 
ing on Tom’s head and beginning to 
pummel it, “ what did you frighten him 
for?” 

“ I didn’t frighten him,” said Tom. 

“ You did, you varmint ! I saw you.” 

“ I didn’t, Jarvis j indeed I didn’t,” # 
cried Tom. 


FRIGHTENING THE PONY. 


115 


Otto came back, rubbing his head and 
looking ruefully. His clothes and face 
and hair were all dust ; his temple was 
grazed. 

Was it him did it, Jarvis ? ” 

“ Of course it was him, nasty little 
devil ! He’s always up to some mean' 
trick.” 

“ Otto, I didn’t,” persisted Tom. “ I 
didn’t do anything.” 

“ I heard him give a hiss, and I saw 
him kick his leg out {jnd pitch a stone ; 
and it frightened Whitestar.” 

Now this barefaced assertion of Mas- 
ter Jarvis’s was neither more nor less 
than a deliberate lie. He had all his 
mother’s ingenuity of invention, and 
was never happier than when exercising 
it to the detriment of the scapegoat 
Tom. A scapegoat in the fullest sense 
of the term, he ; and destined to be one, 
poor fellow ! As you will find when you 
read on. 

Otto looked from one to the other — on 
his brother’s thrust-out face with its evil 
black eyes ; on Tom’s piteous one, with 
its running tears. Otto had this good 
quality — that if he knew a lie to be a 
lie he would never uphold it; no, not 
even for Jarvey. But Otto was by no 
means good-natured, he was too selfish 
to trouble himself to be so ; and more- 
over he was being reared to despise Tom 
and put upon him. 

I never stirred my leg or hissed, 
and I didn’t heave a stone,” pleaded the 
lad earnestly. “ It wasn’t me, Otto.” 

Jarvis kicked, and pummelled, and 
pushed, and so drowned the words in 
pain. A man who had caught White- 
star was leading him up. Thus the 
damaged party entered the Dene gates. 
Lady Lydia, seeing it from her window, 
came flying out to learn what the mat- 
ter might be, and heard of Tom’s iniqui- 
ties.. Poor Tom’s voice was like a little 
piping reed amidst the fierce ones of his 
accusers : even in self-defence he scarce- 
ly dared to lift it in the presence of 
Lady Lydia. She had long ago in- 
spired him with an awe that he trembled 
at, but did not attempt to subdue or re- 
sist. 

They had it out in the hall : Dovet 
and some of the inferior servants look- 
ing on. Gander was not in the way ; 
^ neither was Sir Dene. Lady Lydia was 
in a silent passion of rage : she, to do 
her justice, believed, in this instance, 


that Tom was guilty. When did she 
not believe him guilty of anything he 
might be accused of? Had Jarvis 
brought to her a story that Tom had 
drunk the Severn dry, she would have 
given ear to it. 

Baby though he was, or but little re- 
moved from one, she hated him with a 
bitter hatred. The fear of Sir Dene 
had not let her entirely crush him ; but 
she was doing her best towards it in a 
quiet way, always working on for it 
safely and silently. 

“ Wicked, crafty reptile ! ” cried Lady 
Lydia, her eyes ablaze with a flashing 
light. “ Poor dear Otto, poor inotfensive 
boy, riding by without thought of 
treachery, must bave his pony startled 
and his life put in danger by you f 
Take him, Dovet, and whip him. Whip 
him well.” 

Dovet seized on Tom by the hand 
to bear him off to punishment. It 
came pretty often, this chastisement, 
and Tom neither might nor dared re- 
sist. On trying t® resist once, the 
whipping had been redoubled : in Do- 
vet’s hands, a strong woman, Tom 
was not only powerless, but conscious 
that he was. He submitted so quietly 
in a general way, that Dovet was quite 
astounded at his breaking from her 
now. 

It was only to run back to Otto. A 
sweeter disposition than heaven had im- 
planted in this little orphan of Geoffry 
Clanwaring’s never was possessed by son 
of man. He could not bear, literally 
could not beaVf that another should 
suffer through him. Lady Lydia had 
reiterated to him that he might have 
killed Otto : and the words struck sorely 
on^the child. 

‘^Otto, I’m going with Dovet to bo 
whipped,” he said, the tears streaming 
down his face, “ but I didn’t do it. 
Please don’t think it was me, Otto.” 

There had been no latent thought in 
his mind that this further denial would 
prevent his punishment. Without a 
moment’s hesitation he turned to Dovet’s 
capturing hand and was caught by it, 
his little legs running to keep up with 
her strides, his tears flowing. 

“ Mamma,” said deliberate Otto, after 
giving a minute or two to ponder mat- 
ters in his mind, “ I’m not sure that it 
was him. , He doesn’t tell stories often.” 
Tom never told them. One of the 


116 


DENE HOLLOW. 


chief characteristics of the hoy was 
simple, innate truthfulness. He had 
learnt to be silent and take as his due 
unmerited correction, but an untruth he 
had never told in his life. No one at 
the Dene believed this : even its master 
almost doubted. The fact was, Jarvis 
and Tom were so very often in opposite 
tales, the one’s word against the other’s, 
— and Jarvis was both keen and crafty, 
with his mother to b^ck him, and more- 
over had the advantage over Tom by 
three years, and generally contrived to 
make his own assertion appear good — 
that Tom was beginning to be looked 
upon by some of them as an audacious 
little story teller. 

I say it mightn’t have been him, 
mamma,” repeated Otto, a second time, 
finding that he received no notice. 
“ Shall I go and tell Do vet not to whip 
him ? ” 

“ No,” sharply returned Lady Lydia. 
He does not get whipped often enough, 
low-born brat ! ” 

But if he didn’t frighten White- 
star ? ” persisted (?tto : who was not 
without a sense of justice. 

“Not frighten Whitestar! Did you 
not hear Master* Clan waring say he saw 
him ! Hold your tongue, Otto.” 

Just as she had called her husband 
Captain Clanwaring, — and Major Clan- 
waring now, for he had got his promotion 
— so did she generally speak of her eld- 
est son as “ Master Clanwaring,” even 
to his brother and sister. Otto to the 
servants was “ Master Otto ; ” Tom 
simply “ Tom ” when she condescended 
to name him at all ; she generally spoke 
of him as “ that boy.” 

Tom took his punishment with tears 
and sobs ; not loud but deep : if he had 
made much noise Dovet would have 
treated him to a double portion. She 
kept an old thin leather slipper for the 
purpose, and whipped him soundly with 
that : Dovet’s expression was, “ warmed 
him,” and she did it kindly. 

Lady Lydia Clanwaring’s resolve to 
remain and rule at Beechhurst Dene 
had been admirably carried out. Very 
soon after her arrival, trouble sprang up 
with the servants. She, assuming full 
control and management of the house- 
hold affairs by Bir Dene’s will, intro- 
duced certain new rules and regulations, 
which the old servants rebelled against. 


Warfare waged hotly. Blame lay on 
both sides. Lady Lydia was arbitrary 
and haughty ; they, long accustomed to 
their own will, were disobedient and in- 
solent. The result was, they left in a 
body ; Lady Lydia dismissed them. All 
went, including the housekeeper and 
Susan Cole. My lady had tried in a 
cautious manner to get Gander out also, 
and failed : Gander was perhaps a firmer 
fixture at Beechhurst Dene than she 
was. A new set of servants came in, 
engaged by my lady, and things went on 
peaceably. She made Dovet housekeeper, 
under herself ; but Lady Lydia was the 
real manager. That she was a very 
good one, could not be denied : with fewer 
servants, there was a vast deal more 
of quiet order and less of outlay. Sir 
Dene felt the benefit of her rule : his 
pockets were saved, he had greater com- 
fort ; he was grateful accordingly, and 
learned to put trust in the Lady Lydia. 

As to her quitting the Dene, such a thing 
was never named. Sir Dene was glad 
to have her there, the house had wanted 
the controlling law of a mistress, and it 
left him at liberty to be absent as much 
as he chose, knowing that all was going 
on in due order at home. He was away 
more than ever, for he had grown to like 
a London life. 

Of course, these frequent absences of 
Sir Dene put absolute power into the 
hands of Lady Lydia. She ruled with 
despotic will. She was rather nearer 
in housekeeping matters at these times 
than the servants liked : they whispered 
one to another, that of the liberal sum 
allowed by Sir Dene, a good portion of 
it Went into her own pocket. Which 
was true. Little Tom had hard times 
of it at these intervals. If it happened 
that Sir Dene was away during the 
Christmas or midsummer holidays, Tom 
felt the loss severely. Scarcely ever was 
he allowed to dine at the same table as 
his cousins, but was banished, to Dovet’s 
room and took his meals there. The 
children, taking their cue naturally from 
their mother, had wholly despised him 
from the very day of their arrival ; they 
did not look upon him as one of the 
same order as themselves, but as an in- 
ferior and dependent ; and the feeling 
grew and grew. Even in the matter of - 
dress he was not as they were: the old ^ 
clothes of Jarvis and Otto were mended 


FRIGHTENING THE PONY. 


117 


up for him : what few new things had to 
be bought were of a coarse and poor de- 
scription. Sir Dene failed to see it, or 
to detect the miserable influence at work. 
If he noticed that Tom looked less well 
dressed than the others, Lady Lydia 
would say Yes, because he spoils his 
things so. In truth, Tom’s clothes often 
came to grief ; but it was chiefly through 
Jarvis. Jarvis did not spare him ; he 
boxed Tom, he tore his -clothes, he sent 
him up trees and into ponds. Somehow 
or other Tom was always in trouble, and 
the house in a commotion on account of 
Tom’s misdoings. Continual dropping 
will wear away a stone : and the com- 
plaints of Tom’s sins were so continual, 
that Sir Dene, sick and tired of it, grew 
hard upon the boy himself. Where’s 
Tom ? sometimes the baronet would 
say, missing him from the rest : and 
then Jarvis or his mother would tell 
some bad tale of Tom, and my lady say 
she had banished him for punishment 
Which meant either that he was con- 
signed to Dovet’s society, or to hi's bed 
in the garret, or shut out of the house to 
run abroad anywhere. She got to say 
that Tom’s bad example would contami- 
nate her children : she assured Sir Dene 
that he was the “ greatest little liar ” 
under the sun. Poor Tom, cowed, timid, 
sensitive, intensely generous, did not 
often defend himself j now could he when 
his words, truth though they bore, were 
flung back in his teeth by the others ? 
And so Sir Dene got to think less well 
of the boy and to suffer the slighting 
treatment cast on him — not that he saw, 
or suspected, the one half of the oppres- 
sion. But he loved Tom still in his 
heart — far better than he would ever 
love Jarvis or Otto. 

Tom’s punishment with the slipper 
over, he was put to stand by Dovet in a 
corner of the room, his face to the wall. 
Leaning his head against it, he cried 
away the smarting pain, and finally^ cried 
himself to sleep. Gander came in and 
saw hipa crouched down on the floor, his 
poor little face, the tears still wet on it, 
upturned. 

“ What’s been the row this time ? ” 
familiarly demanded the butler. 

“ He has almost killed Master Otto,” 
was the comprehensive answer of Dovet, 
w-ho was whisking away at some cream 
with a whisk. 


“ A’most killed Master Otto ! ” re- 
peated the startled Gander. How on 
earth did he do that ? ” 

Master Otto was on the pony. H© 
kicked out and shouted and started it 
on, malicious little wretch — and poor 
Master Otto was thrown.” 

‘‘ Why — what made him do it ? ” 

“ What makes him do other wicked 
things ? ” retorted Dovet. 

“ Did he do. it ? ” said Gander. 

Did he ? Don’t I tell you he did ? ” 
Well — look here, Mrs. Dovet. 
There’s always something or other being 
brought against the child — and I don’t 
believe he is in fault one time oiit o’ ten. 
Now don’t you fly out like that : keep 
your tongue for others. One o’ these 
days I shall be telling the master how 
the child’s put upon. As to malicious, 
that he never was.” 

“ Suppose you mind your own busi- 
ness, and let other folk’s alone,” sug- 
gested Dovet with composure. 

“ He’s Mr. Geoffry again all over, 
that child is. He had got no malicious- 
ness about him, he hadn’t.” 

Dovet whisked away. 

“ The very moral of his father, he is,” 
went on Gander, “ save that he’s a sight 
more timid and quiet — Mr. Geoffry never 
was that. The child has got that from 
his mother. And a good thing too : else 
you’d ha’ broke his spirit, afore this, 
among you.” 

The voice and step of Sir Dene in the 
passage outside, stopped Gander. The 
baronet had come in by the back en- 
trance, and was walking straight to the 
housekeeper’s room, a bunch of water 
lilies in his hand. 

“Put them in water, Dovet. Lady 
Lydia—” 

He caught sight of Tom at that mo- 
ment, and stopped. The noise aroused 
the boy, and he stood up. Sir Dene saw 
something was wrong. 

“ He has nearly killed Master Otto, 
Sir Dene,” spoke Dovet, in explanation. 
“ Leastways* ’twas not his fault that he 
didn’t. Little mean, disreputable boy, 
he is, I’m sure ! ” 

At that moment Tom did look tol- 
erably disreputable. His face was dirty 
with the rubbing and crying, his pretty 
hair rumpled into a tangled mass, his 
clothes dusty and untidy. Jarvis and 
Otto, hearing the entrance of Sir Deua 


118 


DENE HOLLOW. 


came trooping in, followed by Lady 
Lydia. And Sir Dene was made ac- 
quainted with Tom’s iniquity. 

f'‘ How came you to do such a 
thing?” demanded Sir Dene sternly. 
‘‘ You naughty, mischievous, boy ! 
Suppose you liad killed him ? ” 

1 didn’t do it, grandpapa,” replied 
the child, his blue eyes raised to Sir 
Dene’s through their blinding tears; 
And those eyes, Geoffry’s over again, 
never failed to make their own way 
with Sir Dene. 

‘‘You did not do it?” he said, more 
gently. 

Indeed, indeed I did not. I was by 
the fence and I never stirred.” 

Jarvis fiercely interposed. He had 
seen it all, he said ; Seen the kick-out 
and the stone flung after IVhitestar, 
and heard the hiss. As usual, it was 
word against word ; Tom’s feeble and 
tearful, Jarvey’s bold and self-asserting. 
But for those earnest blue eyes that so 
brought back his dear son Geoffry, Sir 
Dene had not hesitated. He looked 
from the one boy to the other — as Otto 
had done in Dene Hollow — and wav- 
ered. Sir Dene had his private rea- 
sons for thinking Jarvey might be mis- 
taken. Mistaken, you understand j not 
wilfully false. The Lady Lydia did 
her best always in confidential mo- 
ments to persuade Sir Dene that his 
eldest grandson (eldest in years) was an 
upright little gentleman, next door to 
an angel. 

What have you to say about it, 
Otto ? ” asked the baronet. “ Did 
Tom do this thing, or did he not ? ” 

“I couldn’t see, grandpapa. I had 
m}’’ head turned the bank way : Tom 
was against the fence.” 

‘‘ Did you hear him hiss ? ” 

No, I was whistling.” 

Or feel the stone ? ” 

No, and I didn’t feel the stone. I 
think he must have flung the stone, 
else why should Whitestar have start- 
ed ? He’d not take fright for nothing.” 

Sir Dene did not feel so sure of that 
— remembering the particular spot it 
occurred in. 

‘‘You might have heard the hiss he 
gave down at Hurst L'eet,” protested 
Jarvis. “You might have seen him 
fling the stone a mile off.” 

And then the talking nearly over- 


powered Sir Dene, and quite bewil- 
dered him. Lady Lydia said there 
could not be a doubt about it — Master 
Clanwaring had seen all this with his 
own eyes ; and she furthermore said 
that Tom had done it in revenge, be- 
cause Otto had taken the pony when he 
wanted it for himself. To have listened 
to her. Sir Dene might have thought 
that there never existed so wicked a 
little lad on earth, as this waif of his 
favorite son’s. Nevertheless, he be- 
lieved that the charge might have 
arisen from misapprehension, the pony 
not having been wilfully started. He 
knew also that boys, at the ^best, are 
carelessly mischievous, doing ill some- 
times in very thoughtlessness. 

“If I thought 3 mu had done this 
thing, maliciously, Tom, 1 should flog 
you myself — and that I have never 
done yet,” he said, “ I can but believe 
that some action of jmurs, perhaps un- 
intentional, on 3 rour part, startled the 
pony. You beg Otto’s pardon directlj’’, 
sir ; and tell him you will be more care- 
ful for the future.” 

Never daring to maintain that he 
was wholly innocent, Tom, his eyes 
streaming, did what he was told, and 
begged Otto’s pardon. The very fact 
of his doing it without any demur, con- 
vinced some of them that he was guilty. 
In a degree it did Sir Dene. 

But, seated alone in the solitude of 
his own bay-windowed parlor, the baro- 
net, weighing the matter in his mind, 
believed that the pony might have 
started of its own accord. For he had 
grown, even he. Sir Dene Clanwaring, 
had grown to dislike that spot for 
horses. 

Accident after accident had contin- 
ued to take place upon it. The series, 
inaugurated by Sir Dene’s own horses 
— the reader may remember the day he 
was being driven down the road by poor 
Geoffry — had culminated only a month 
or two ago in a very singular mishap 
indeed. How many there had been 
between the two does not matter : 
several; but not one fatal. Drew the 
bailiff had recovered partiall}^ of his : 
he could go about in a hand chair, and 
talk and laugh and eat his meals at 
will : and his had been the worst case. 

Dene Hollow, smooth and level and 
well-kept road though it was, was get- 


FRIGHTENING THE PONY. 


119 


ting a bad name. People talked about 
the shadow ” on it a great deal more 
than Sir Dene liked. Not that any 
shadow was ever seen there by human 
eyes, but the popular belief was that 
there did in some way exist at times 
that shadow, and horses were startled 
at it. Sir Dene thought it was the 
most ridiculously absurd notion a sane 
parish had ever picked up : and no 
doubt the reader is thinking the same. 
The fact, however, was indisputable — 

. and I am recording nothing but the 
truth — that horse after horse had been 
startled there in a mysterious manner : 
mysterious because there was appar- 
ently nothing to startle them. Twice 
over Sir Dene had had the road exam- 
ined by officers connected with what 
was called the post-horse duty, lest any 
imperceptible roughness or ridge might 
be found to lie on it — but nothing of 
V the kind could be discovered. When- 
^ ever Sir Dene drove or rode up or down 
it now, he held his horses verj^ carefully 
in hand ; for though he utterly scouted 
the superstitious gossip around, he could 
not scout the fact that horses did come 
to grief there, frequently and unac- 
countably. 

The last mishap is one to be noticed. 
A gentleman named Dickereen, living 
in Hurst Leet, died ; and his remains 
were to be taken to a small village 
church, lying out beyond the Trailing 
Indian. The funeral was proceeding 
up Dene Hollow at the usual decorous 
pace, Hurst Leet bell tolling solemnly, 
and Hurst Leet having turned out to 
w^atch the progress. A funeral of the 
better class, involving a hearse and 
mourning coaches, with a black chariot 
in front for the parson in his surplice, 
and sticks and mutes and feathers, was 
not an every-day sight in the rural 
district. As the hearse approached the 
ill-omened spot (the parson’s chariot 
having passed on soberly) the four 
horses, with one accord, as it seemed, 
attempted to turn suddenly round. 
The driver, scandalized at their beha- 
vior, stopped it of course, and whipped 
them up. But no : the horses would 
not go on. And what precisely hap- 
pened ^then, nobody could afterwards 
tell, for all was over in a moment. 
There was a noise, a bustle, confusion : 
undertakers’ men on foot ran, drivers 


shouted : in the midst of it the hearse 
seemed to spring up on the bank with 
a violent jerk, which sent the door open 
and the coffin out end- ways. 

Only think of the scandal to a sober 
funeral ! Hurst Leet remembers it to 
this day. What could have possessed 
the fat, steady, slow-going horses, hardly ^ 
ever moving beyond a foot’s pace — that 
they should have danced up the bank as . 
if they were dancing a jig, and shown 
signs of fear until their coats ran wet 
again ? It was never accounted for. 

It was, in truth, unaccountable. The 
funeral was going up-hill, j^ou under- 
stand ; not down. The astounded 
mourners got out of their coaches ; the 
horses were soothed to quietness ; and 
the attendants shut up the coffin in the 
hearse again. 

Now this happened. It was talked 
of far and wide. Hurst Leet w'ould tell 
you of it to this day. Even Sir Dene 
Clanwaring could no more explain it 
than he could deny it. And since then 
a hazy sort of impression had floated in 
his mind that there must be something 
at the spot that did frighten horses, 
though man could not see it. Hence he 
believed that Otto’s pony might have 
started without any help from little Tom 
or anybody else. 

These thoughts in his mind. Sir Dene, 
sitting in his room, sent for the child. 
He held Tom before his knee while he 
talked to him. First of all, he gave 
him a lecture about telling untruths, 
saying that his papa (Geoffry) had nev- 
er told any and would be sure to have 
whipped Tom for doing it, if he were 
living. “ And I’m sure I cannot con- 
tinue to love you,” concluded Sir Dene. 

With his little heart nearly breaking 
at the sense of the injustice that all 
seemed to deal out to him, — with the 
tears welling up in his blue eyes, — with 
the bitter sobs impending his utterance, 
Tom said again what he had said before : 
that he did not do anything to frighten 
the pony, or think of doing it. Sir 
Dene saw how earnestly the child spoke ; 
he noted the confiding look of the hon- 
est blue eyes that shone upon him 
through their tears. Never had he felt 
inclined to believe Tom more than now ; 
especially with those accidents to other 
horses filling his thoughts. 

“ 1 could believe you from my heart, 


120 


DENE HOLLOW. 


Tom, and understand it into the bargain, 
but for Jarvey. He says he saw you 
purposely frighten Whitestar.’’ 

Between his extreme sensitiveness for 
other’s feelings, his large generosity, and 
his innate timidity — which was in- 
creased ten-fold bj'’ the thraldom he was 
kept in, the slights he received — Tom 
was literally unable to say to Sir Dene 
that Jarvis told falsehoods. This was 
only one instance out of many where 
Jarvey had accused him without any 
manner of reason, and he had never said 
to Sir Dene, “ It is Jarvis who tells the 
stories, not I.” Another thing may 
have helped to deter him — the certainty 
that he should not be believed. Jarvis 
would make his own cause good, and 
Eady Lydia turn the tables on him with 
a vengeance. 

“ I didn’t do it, grandpa, * was all he 
repeated, catching up his breath in 
pain. 

But you know you do tell stories, 
Tom.” 

‘‘No I don’t, grandpa,” sobbed the 
child. “I should be afraid for God to 
hear me.” 

“ Then J arvey must have seen double 
—sees so often, too,” cried the baronet 
ex^plosively — for somehow the answer 
carried truth with it. “ Anyway, I be- 
lieve you now. And there’s a shilling 
for you, Tom.” 

But as a rule, Sir Dene did not ques- 
tion the boy in private, and Jarvis got 
all the credit, he none. The wondering 
whether th'e pony had really been start- 
led accountably — or unaccountably, af- 
ter the fashion of the other horses — had 
caused Sir Dene to question now. It 
was the exception. 

And it sometimes happened in the 
accusations brought against Tom, the 
tales told of him, that he would be par- 
tially in fault. In the escapades that 
all three of the children shared — and 
the girl Louisa, with them — Tom alone 
would be made out to have been to 
blame ; he was always the scapegoat. 
If all were throwing stones and a win- 
dow got broken — Tom was said to have 
done it : if the pigs were let out of the 
sty or the chickens out of their pens, it 
was Tom who had opened the door : when 
the miller’s little boy was pushed into 
the stream and nearly drowned, Tom 
was the culprit. Tom knew that he 


had, himself, done nothing of all this ; 
but he had been with those who had, 
and no defence existed for him. 

“A lie that is all a lie can be met with and fought 
outright, 

But a lie that is part of a truth is a harder mat- 
ter to fight.” 


CHAPTEE XIX. 

MISS MAY. 

A FIELD whose perfume was redolent 
of new-mown hay, and whose prolific 
cocks told of a good crop, lay open to 
the sun on the fair June morning. The 
day was yet early : the hay-makers sang 
at their work. Attended by her nurse, 
Susan Cole, came a pretty little lady of 
some three years old, with a round lovely 
childish face, and rich brown eyes that 
looked out franklj^ from their long brown 
lashes, curling upwards. She wore a 
large white sun-bonnet, after the fashion 
of the children of the district, and was 
doing her best to scatter the hay about 
that the hay-makers had just raked up. 
Doing it quite in defiance of Susan 
Cole ; for she was a very saucy and 
independent young lady indeed, con- 
tinually in hot water with the ruling 
powers. 

“ Miss May, don’t I tell you that them 
big cocks ave not to be disturbed to-day 
— giving double trouble ! I never see 
such a naughty little child as you are in 
all my life ! ” 

Miss May’s answer to this was to 
climb up one of the mounds and pitch- 
pole down on the other side, bringing 
all the top of the cock with her. There 
she sat, quite still, for a wonder. And 
stillness was so unusual an element in 
Miss May Arde, that Susan Cole step- 
ped round to see what other mischief 
she might be in. 

“ Oh ! Well, I’m sure ! Oh ! You 
ondacious little girl ! — a pulling off your 
shoes and socks afore all them hay- 
makers ! ” 

For the young lady had been quietly 
divesting herself of these articles of 
social attire, that she might dance in the 
hay barefoot. Eluding Susan’s grasp 
with a ringing laugh, she flew off 
screaming, and flung herself into the 
arms of little Tom Cl an waring, who 
happened to be running up. Little 


MISS 

Tom, in point of fact, but big Tom in 
the young damsel’s eyes : his seven 
years, compared to her three, seemed to 
constitute a whole ag*e. 

Tom clasped the truant in his arms, 
and kissed her : they were the best of 
friends. Susan, bearing the socks and 
little shoes of bronze, took forcible 
possession now ; and sat down on the 
field with the child on her lap. But the 
process of re-socking and re-shoeing was 
a difficult job. Laughing, rebellious, 
kicking out arms and legs, struggling 
and fighting with Susan, was Miss May. 
Tom helped — by tossing the socks over 
Susan's head. 

Now, Master Tom, I’ll tell you what 
it is. If you be to encourage her in her 
naughty tricks. I’ll ask my missis not to 
let you come in here at all. Tain’t your 
field. She is the tiresom’st little worrit 
to-day that ever was. You be old 
enough to tell her better, you be. I 
never had half the trouble with you. 
Miss May, if you take your socks off as 
fast as I put ’em on, where’ll be the end 
on’t ? ” 

Miss May managed to get one in her 
fingers, and sent it up on the next hay- 
cock. Tom was ordered to fetch it 
down. 

At length, by dint of dexterous 
sleight-of-hand, Susan got on the socks 
and one shoe. While she was putting 
on the other, the young rebel tore off 
that one — and tore off the strap that 
fastened it round the ankle. Susan saw 
the mishap with dismay. 

“ There ! Now you have done it. 
Miss May ! Your shoe won’t keep on 
without the strap — and how the sense 
be I to get you home in your sock ? 
Of all ondacious little plagues you be 
the worst.’’ 

The “ little plague ” — Susan’s atten- 
tion being momentarily absorbed by the 
damaged shoe — got away, seized two 
arms full of hay and flung it over Tom. 
The children rolled on the ground to- 
gether. 

“ A’ most as good as a new pair, they 
was,” lamented Su^an. ^‘And the kid 
be all tore right ou . o’ the back so as it 
can’t never be mended. My missis ’ll 
blame me ; she’ll say I might ha’ took 
better care. Tiresome monkey ! I 
must go home for another shoe for her 
now. Master Tom, ’ll you take care o’ 


MAY. 121 

Miss May while I run to the Hall and 
back ? ” 

Tom, feeling excessively proud at the 
request, turned to Susan, chivalrous 
earnestness sparkling from his deep blue 
eyes. 

“I’ll be sure to take care of her, 
Susan : she shan’t hurt herself or run 
away.” 

And Susan, knowing that in point of 
fact both the children would be safe 
under the protection of the haymakers, 
men and women, busy close by, and all 
familiar peasants of the district, de- 
parted on her errand. 

You may be wondering who this girl 
of three years old is — whose second 
name, Mary, generally got shortened 
into May. She was the child of George 
Arde and his present wife : the only 
child of the Hall. That frail blossom, 
the first Mary, the child of George Arde 
and Mary Owen, the little one to whom 
the old Squire used to carry presents of 
coral beads and else, and to whom he 
left the fortune, was no more. The 
delicate little creature, who had in- 
herited her mother’s beauty and no 
doubt her mother’s frailty of constitu- 
tion, had pined away and died. The 
second Mrs. Arde did her best to nurse 
and cherish her into health ; but it was 
not to be : God called her to Himself. 
Before this other child was born (des- 
tined to be the second Mrs. Arde’s only 
one), the elder was lying by her 
mother’s side in St. Peter’s churchyard 
at Worcester. Mary happened to be 
the second Mrs. Arde’s name also, so it 
was one of the names given to her in- 
fant. They had got into the habit 
(especially Mr. Arde and Susan Cole) 
of calling that departed little one the 
“ first Mary.” For this second Mary 
no fears were entertained on the score 
of health: she was hearty and strong. 
Susan was won’t to say at reproachful 
moments that if she had only as little 
mischievousness in her as she had ten- 
dency to sickness, she’d do. 

Susan Cole’s life had undergone a 
blight — she had been crossed in love. 
At least, that's what she said of herself 
when wishing to be confidential. But 
where the blight had fallen and how it 
had affected her, was not so clear : cer- 
tainly it had touched neither her tongue 
nor her cheerful temper. That faise 


122 


DENE HOLLOW. 


journeyman at her father’s forge had 
married another. At the very time (as 
may be said) that he was whispering 
love vows in Susan’s ear, he was court- 
ing another at Worcester: and one fine 
morning he went off and married her — 
a great ugly malkin, as Susan expressed 
it. Cole the farrier told Susan she was 
well out of it ; for the man (he had 
previously had to discharge him) had 
grown so drunken and idle that he was 
hardly worth his salt at the trade, and 
would not be likely to get a living for 
any wife. Perhaps Susan, in her heart, 
thought the same. At least she wasted 
no superfluous time in grief. It occurred 
just as she and the other servants were 
turning out of the Dene through Lady 
Lydia : the nurse at the Hall was leav- 
ing, and Susan stepped into the post. 

Little Tom Clanwaring had been 
allowed to run in and out of the Hall 
since its new mistress came to it as freely 
as he did before. Mrs. Arde liked the 
beautiful boy with his golden curls and 
his wonderful eyes of blue that gazed 
so straightly and fearlessly into her 
own ; she liked his gentle manners, and 
his curiously strange (at that early age) 
consideration for others. No one had 
wept more bitterly for the littte girl’s 
death than Tom. It had pleased the 
child to have Tom very much with her ; 
Mrs. Arde allowed it : and perhaps the 
scenes of sickness, the distressing grief 
evinced by Mr. Arde, had made an im- 
pression on Tom that he would never 
lose. That she had gone straight up to 
be an angel in Heaven, no earthly power 
could have reasoned him out of. For 
days and weeks after her death, he 
would fancy he saw her robed in w'hite, 
with a little harp of gold in her hand, 
and a crown amid her hair, looking down 
at him from the skies. Tom — then be- 
tween three and four years old — was 
taken to the funeral at St. Peter’s by 
Squire Arde : and Sir Dene had him 
put into mourning for his cousin. Lady 
Lydia, supremely indignant, would have 
pitched the black things out at window 
had she dared. “ Spending money to 
put that beggar’s brat in mourning ! ” 
she mockingly remarked to Dovet. 

A month onwards, and the other little 
girl came to the Hall to replace the one 
lost. Tom had never seen anything so 
wonderful as this new baby. The rever- 


ence with w'hich he would regard the 
infant, when allowed to hold her for a 
minute in his arms, (seated safely flat on 
the carpet), was great and real. The 
baby called forth the first true-love of 
his heart ; in his own mind he acquired 
a kind of proprietorship in her: and he 
would far rather have died himself 
than suffered harm to come to the little 
one. 

So that when, on this day, Susan told 
him to take care of her while she went 
home for another shoe, Tom was in the 
seventh region of gratification. The 
field belonged to Squire Arde, and was 
within a stone’s throw of the Hall. 

May,” began Tom as Susan’s foot- 
steps faded on their ears, “ I’ve got a 
new picture-book that Grandma Owen 
bought for me. I’ve got it in my 
pocket.” 

May, with all her wild fun, was in- 
tensely fond of “ picture-books.” Down 
sat the children together at the foot of 
a hay-cock, their feet stretched out 
(one of Miss May’s shoeless) and the 
book held between them. 

Like all books bought by Mrs. Owen 
for Tom, it had a religious tendency. 
That is, while the story in itself was 
beautiful, and calculated entirely to rivet 
the interest of a child, it insensibly led 
its young reader to higher and better 
thoughts. Such hooks, vfhen they are 
well and suitably written, are the very 
best that can be put into the hands of a 
child. There has been a singular dearth 
of them in these later years. There 
they sat, the two: May’s little tongue 
asking questions about the “ pictures,” 
and Tom explaining to the best of his 
ability. Which explanation might have 
sent a grown person into fits of laughter. 

Me wis me tould read ! ” exclaimed 
May, when, the pictures exhausted — the 
hook only contained three — they had to 
fall back upon the reading. 

“ I’ll read it to you. May,’.’ said Tom. 

With their backs against the hajmock, 
and their heads bent over the book, the 
little lady’s cheek touching his, Tom 
began. The progress was not satisfac- 
tory j since at the end of every two 
lines, or so, Tom was called upon to say 
why this was, and why that was. Sud- 
denly a shadow fell upon the book and 
upon them. Up went their heads, and 
I nearly a whole haycock was flung in 


MISS MAY. 


123 


their faces. Not lightly, either; for the 
flinger was Jarvis Clau waring. Absorb- 
ed in the book, and with each other, 
neither had seen him approach. May 
burst into a loud cry of pain : the hay 
had struck her in the eye. Down went 
the book, and up jumped Tom. 

“ What did you do that for, Jarvis ? 
You’ve hurt her.” 

“ What did I do it for, you insolent 
young rat ! How dare you ask me 
what I did it for ? Because I chose. 
There. Squalling little cat ! She’s not 
hurt.” 

May, who hated Jarvis at all times 
because she was afraid of him, began 
kicking out with all her little might as 
she sat, the tears falling from her smart- 
ing eyes. 

“ Make him go away, Tom ! make 
him go away. Me tell mamma.” 

“ You are to go away please,” said 
Tom, standing up bravely to shelter 
May. “ You’ve no right to hurt her, 
J arvis.” 

“ She’s not hurt — nasty stinking little 
toad.” 

Tom, his eyes flashing fire (as his 
sweet-natured father’s had flashed once 
or twice in his brief life), clenched his 
impotent, small fist, and struck straight 
out and upwards at Mr. Jarvis’s face, 
catching him between the eyes. The 
blow could not hurt very much ; but it 
was a bit of a smart, and it smarted all 
the more because it was not expected. 
Jarvis, in a frantic passion, pummelled 
Tom’s face back again, and an unequal 
fight ensued. May screamed as if she 
were going mad wdth terror ; and one of 
the women and Susan Cole rushed up 
together. Tom’s nose was streaming 
wdth blood ; Jarvis was not apparently 
injured. But in that culminating mo- 
ment, he contrived to damage himself. 
Turning shortly on his heel to confront 
the indignant Susan, he stumbled over 
a rake handle that one of the women 
had let fall, and eut his upper lip with 
the rake’s teeth. More blood : and May 
screamed w'orse than ever from sheer 
terror. Susan caught up the child and 
hid her face upon her protecting shoul- 
der. 

“ How dare you get fighting, Master 
Tom — when I left you to take care of 
Miss May ! ” demanded Susan, not car- 
ing to attack Jarvis in his present state ] 


of fury : for, once, when she had inter- 
fered with him, he had kicked her in a 
rather serious manner. “ Well, I’m 
sure ! We shall have a baby in arms, I 
suppose, standing up to fight next ! ” 

“ He called May names,” said Tom, 
who could not restrain his tears between 
pain and excitement. “ He hurt her in 
the eye.” 

“ You confounded little blackguard ! ” 
cried Jarvis, trying to dodge up to Tom 
again with outstretched hand. “ Do 
you suppose I shall ask your leave 
whether I call names or not ? She is a 
toad. There ! ” 

She’s not a toad, and you shan’t call 
her one,” retorted Tom. ‘‘ You are a 
coward.” 

Further demonstration on Jarvis’s part, 
was stopped by his swallowing a tooth. 
One that had been ready to fall out be- 
fore, and which the blow on the rake 
must have quite done for. Tom Clan- 
waring’s instinct was sure and true : 
Jarvis was a coward. Not only in the 
matter of bullying little girls and fight- 
ing boys less than himself, but in other 
matters. This swallowing of the tooth 
sent him into a state of mortal terror: 
he had heard a tale at school of some 
boy who had swallowed a tooth and died 
after it. Jarvis, suddenly remembering 
this, turned tail and rushed off the hay- 
field the color of chalk. 

“ You come on to the Hall, Master 
Tom, that your hose may be seen to,” 
said Susan. “ A sweet pickle it’s in ! 
Enough to frighten the crows.” 

A brave little gentleman, wi’ all his 
pretty manners, that born son o’ poor 
Master Geoffry’s ” was the comment of 
the woman to the other haymakers when 
the fray was over. As to the big un, 
he’s more of a tartar nor his mother ! ” 

Arde Hall was not much to look at. 
A rather long, red-brick building, two 
stories high, wdth narrow windows and 
a slated roof, its front looking towards 
the village. The old-fashioned portico 
in the middle of the house opened upon 
a lawn that was intersected with flower- 
beds ; on wdiich bees and butterflies were 
sporting that sunny June day. Mrs. 

— a nice-looking, but somewhat re- 
served and stately woman — fond of gar- 
dening, was tending her flowers in a 
sun bonnet and a pair of old gloves, 
talking the while to her husband, who 


124 


DENE HOLLOW. 


sat at one of the open windows. Natu- 
rally they felt some surprise at the en- 
trance of the procession: Susan carrying 
May, who sobbed aloud still ; Tom, with 
a damaged face and bleeding nose. 
Susan opened at once upon his delin- 
quencies — that he “ up with his fist 
and struck Master Clanwaring, and they 
had a fight. 

“ He called May names, said Tom, 
with fresh tears, but looking up fear- 
lessly. “ I couldn’t help hitting him.” 

Squire Arde burst out laughing. A 
very knight-errant,” said he, “ taking 
up the cudgels for damsels in distress ! ” 

“ But what ails May ? ” said Mrs. 
Arde, as she took the sobbing child. 

“ Oh, she’s only frightened, ma’am,” 
was Susan’s slighting answer. “ And 
enough to frighten her, to see the blood 
on this here face of his’n,” concluded 
the girl as she walked Tom off to the 
pump. 

The lavatory process over, Tom came 
back to kiss the little girl — then seated 
on the grass — and whispered that 
Jarvis should never frighten or hurt her 
again, or call her names, if he could 
help it. Then he ran off home. 

Where the discomfited and frightened 
Jarvis had previously arrived. At this 
time, Mrs. Clanwaring, the wife of John 
the heir, was on a visit to Beechhurst 
Dene, with her daughter, Margaret, her 
eldest boy, and two little sons, younger : 
so that just now the Dene seemed full 
of children. She was a good-natured 
and very pretty woman — her own large 
fortune enabling her to indulge in show 
and luxuries that might not be even 
dreamed of by Lady Lydia. For in- 
stance she had arrived with a lady’s 
maid and three nurses, and one male 
servant who was called her own foot- 
man, the party having posted from town 
in two carriages and four. These things 
were looked upon as necessaries b}'’ Mrs. 
Clanwaring, because she had been reared 
to them : but she was, herself, entirely 
unpretentious, of quite simple tastes 
and manners. The two ladies were sit- 
ting together in that attractive room, 
the library, when Jarvis burst in upon 
them like a panting ghost — if ghosts 
ever display cut lips, and chins dripping 
human gore. The boy was literally ter- 
ror-stricken : his features were swollen 
with his insane endeavors to cough up 


the tooth coming along, his eyes rolled, 
his face was whiter than any ghost’s 
ever seen yet. A deplorable figure alco- 
gether. Up jumped the Lady Lydia, 
uttering scream upon scream ; she quite 
believed her darling boj'’ was either mad 
or killed, and began to hug him. Pret- 
ty Mrs. Clanwaring, in defiance of hei 
good manners, laughed a little. 

The tale that Master Jarvis told was 
as good as a play : no dramatic author 
ever drew more on his inventive powers. 
Toin was represented as a very monster 
of iniquity, who had attacked Jarvis 
with a rake, “ on the sly,” cut off his 
lip and knocked all his teeth down his 
throat ! 

But that the teeth were in his head 
still, plainly to be seen beneath the 
swollen upper lip not cut off. Lady 
Lydia, in her dismay, might have sent 
off for the nearest stomach-pump. The 
whole house was aroused to commotion. 
Basins of hot water were ordered in 
succession ; Lady Lydia, Dovet, and a 
dozen others bathing with sol't spunges, 
and without intermission, the injured 
lip. Under the assurances of my lady 
and Mrs. Clanwaring that a solitary 
tooth, going down by accident, never 
killed people, but on the contrary was 
rather good for digestion, the gentleman 
was soothed . into calmness. The dis- 
turbance had brought forth Sir Dene 
from his bay-parlor, wh'ete he was en- 
gaged with accounts : he stayed long 
enough to hear the woeful account of 
Tom’s savage attack, and then went 
back again. 

When Tom got home, shortly after- 
wards, Jarvis was lying on the sofa, his 
mouth tied up with a white handker- 
chief, and some delicious apricot jam by 
his side. Dovet met Tom in the hall. 

“ You have done a nice thing,” cried 
she, nearly jerking his arm out of its 
socket. “ You’ve almost killed Master 
Clanwaring.” 

Almost killed Master Clanwaring ! 
Full of consternation, the words strik- 
ing no end of remorse on his litte heart, 
Tom opened the library door and went 
in timidly. He did not present any 
grand appearance himself, for, in run- 
ning home, his nose had burst out 
bleeding again. The moment Jarvis 
saw him, he leaped off the sofa, and 
gave him an ugly kick. Mrs. Clan- 


MISS MAY. 


125 


waring ran to the rescue and pushed 
Jarvis off: but the vicious malice that 
blazed in his eyes, she did not forget 
for years. 

“Not in my presence, Jarvey. How 
can you attack a little fellow who is no 
match for you ? It is perfectly wicked 
to kick any one in that savage way. I 
am afraid you are a coward.’’ 

“ Why did he attack me in the hay- 
field ? ” retorted Jarvey. “I’ll kill 
him if I can.” 

But Lady Lydia pounced on Tom 
and whirled him off with her. What 
with the sight of him, and what with 
Mrs. Clanwaring’s words, her fury at 
least equalled that of Jarvis. On the 
mahogany slab in the passage, leading 
to the side entrance and Sir Dene’s 
parlor, lay the boys’ riding whip. 
Seizing hold of it, she struck Tom : 
not perceiving, perhaps not caring, that 
a young man not belonging to the house, 
was at that moment turning out of the 
bay-parlor. Struck him anywhere : on 
his shoulders, bn his unprotected face, 
on his bare hands. Gander, propping 
his back against his pantry door, stood 
looking on. As did the stranger, who 
was no other than William Owen of 
Harebell Farm. The cuts were sharp 
and quick : Tom shrieked with pain, 
and it brought out Sir Dene. My lady 
ceased then : and the baronet pushed by 
William Owen. 

“Wait!” cried Sir Dene in a voice 
of thunder, as she was making off with 
the child. “ Wait, I say ! ” So Lady 
Lydia left the boy, threw down the 
whip, and disappeared. Sir Dene 
caused Tom to stand and confront 
him. His poor little face had a livid 
weal across it. 

“ Now, sir, tell me the truth. Did 
you strike Jarvis before he struck 
5’ou ? ” 

Up went the honest eyes through 
their tears with fearless truth straight 
into Sir Dene’s. 

“ Y"es, grandpa. ’Twas me hit him 
first.” 

“ Did you cut his mouth ? And 
knock his teeth down his throat ? ” 

“ I suppose so. I didn’t know.” 

“ And what on earth tempted you to 
be so ferocious a child as to do all 
this?” 

He called May wicked names. 


grandpa ; he hurt her in the eye and 
frightened her. Susan had told me to 
take care of her while she went for an- 
other shoe.” 

Sir Dene bit his lip to prevent a 
smile. The same thought occurred to 
him that had come to George Arde — 
and amused him — this little lad, rising 
seven, doing battle for a lady attacked ! 
But he was frightfully annoyed at my 
Lady Lydia. 

“ Who hurt your nose ? — and made 
it swell like that ? ” 

“Jarvis did: he made it bleed. He 
hit me worse than I hit him.” 

“No doubt on’t,” commented Gan- 
der, from the kitchen door. 

“ Well, you must have been a naugh- 
ty boy altogether, Tom ; very naughty ; 
and Lady Lydia has punished you for 
it. Try and be good for the future — 
if you can.” 

Sir Dene turned into his parlor 
again ; William Owen, although his 
interview was over, followed him in 
and shut the door. Gander retreated 
into his pantry. 

All sobbing and wounded as he was, 
Tom ran out at the side door and down 
the straight path, to take shelter at 
Harebell Farm. His heart was cruelly 
sore as he went up the stairs — for Mrs. 
Owen was keeping her chamber. Not 
sore at thought of his weals and wounds, 
but at the injustice dealt out to him. 
Jarvis had been more of an offender 
than he, and was petted up with jam ; 
he was taunted and whipped. Tom had 
been inured to this unjust treatment, 
but it did strike him with pain to-day. 
Mary Barber, coming out of her mis- 
tress’ chamber all in a bustle, on her 
way to make some dumplings for din- 
ner, was quite struck aback at the sight 
of Tom. 

“ Mercy upon us I ” cyied she. “ Why 
what in the name o’ goodness is the 
matter ? ” 

Sobbing, choking, Tom told his tale, 
leaning for protection — and it seemed to 
the child that he needed it — against 
Mrs. Owen. She had some warm wa- 
ter brought up, and bathed his poor face 
and hands, and spoke gently to him, 
and soothed his spirit : the tears falling 
from her own eyes as she thought it 
might have been better had the. poor 
little waif died with his mother. 


126 


DE^^E HOLLOW. 


But that I think I shall not be long 
here, and that William seems bent upon 
not staying in the place afterwards, I 
hardly know why, I would beg and 
pray of Sir Dene to let me have the 
child entirely,’’ ran Mrs. Owen’s 
thoughts. 

As they had run, at odd times, for a 
long while now. Ever since the arrival 
of Lady Lydia, Mrs. Owen had clearly 
seen what the child’s treatment was at 
the Dene, and the contempt he was held 
in. It was bad enough during these, 
his young years, when he could neither 
feel it very keenly nor attempt to rebel 
against it : what the result might be in 
later years, what complications and mis- 
fortunes it might bring about for the 
friendless child, she dreaded to think of. 
That Sir Deue would not be wilfully un- 
just to Geoffry’s son, she believed ; but 
Sir Dene was a man who loved peace 
and quietness, ease also ; he was given to 
credit implicitly what he was told, never 
searching beneath the surface of things, 
and he was already nearly completely 
in the hands of his designing daughter- 
in-law. 

His face in less of a smart, his grief 
over, save for a catching sob that took 
his breath at intervals (and Mary Bar- 
ber gone down to bake a little cake for 
him), room was made for Tom on Mrs. 
Owen’s sofa. He sat nestling against 
her, her arm round him, her pale face, 
so sweet and delicate and telling of sor- 
row and suffering, bending toward his. 
Never did Mrs. Owen fail to improve 
these occasions in the manner she 
thought it right and best to do. In 
place of standing out for vengeance on 
Jarvis or others, as some might have 
counselled, she whispered of endurance, 
of forbearance, of persevering on in the 
path of patience and truth, however 
much he might b^ tried, and of the en- 
suing of calm and holy peace. Trouble 
was certainly trying the child early ; 
but she strove to show him, and to think, 
that it must be for the best. On some 
children these lessons might have been 
lost, might have borne no fruit : but 
Tom’s natural disposition was so admira- 
bly adapted to receive them that they 
did on his. There’s no doubt — however 
the reader may feel inclined to dispute 
and perhaps ridicule this small portion 
of the tale — that these inculcated lessons 


m 

had a strangely-good effect on Tom. 
They helped him to bear now; they 
tended to form his character for after 
years. But for them he would have 
been utterly miserable, might have sunk 
into a broken-spirited child, and perhaps 
become a veritable, abandoned young 
Arab. Day after day, did Mrs. Owen 
patientlj’’ labor at her work — for never a 
day passed but Tom was driven out of 
the Dene by some oppression or other, ac- 
tive or passive — and she would send him 
back with all the sweetness of his dispo- 
sition renewed, ready to bear again. 

Was it wrong to hit Jarvis when he 
called May those wicked names, grand- 
ma ? ” 

Now here was a puzzle. Mrs. Owen 
privately rejoiced at Tom’s spirit; but 
it was hardly consistent with the peace- 
ful lessons she was inculcating to say so. 

“Well, Tom, I — don’t think in this 
case it was very wrong.” 

“I wish he’d let me alone j I wish 
he’d not get grandpa to believe bad 
things of me. Oh grandma ! you don’t 
know how cruel it all is at home ! ” 

A sobbing sigh, proving how sore his 
little heart was, followed on the words. 
Mrs. Owen pressed him closer in her 
gentle clasp, and spoke in a whisper. 

“ My darling, I do know it. I know 
how’ cruel it is, and how hard it is to en- 
dure. God sees it all, Tom ; never lose 
thought of that, no not in the worst 
moment. You bear on fearlessly in 
truth and honor, my boy ; always striv- 
ing to return good for evil, even to Jar- 
vis, in sVeet-tem.pered, patient, generous 
forbearance : and trust all things to God. 
He will be sure to take care of you, and 
bring you to comfort in the end.” 

Tom nodded with ready cheerfulness, 
as he had many and many a time before. 
There was resolution in his little face, 
cast up just then to the summer sky. 

“ I will, grandma, I will : I’ll never 
forget. And, grandma, papa is looking 
down to take care of me too, and mam- 
ma is ; and they are with God’s angels.” 

“ Even so, my darling. Your best 
friends are in that better world where 
God is. I shall soon be there : and you 
will come to us in time. All these suf- 
ferings and trials are but making you 
ready for it.” 

And the tractable little fellow, gazing 
up at the blue sky, and picturing all 


DRIVEN FROM HAREBELL FARM. 


127 


kinds of radiant things beyond it, quite 
forgot present pain. 

“ Now, then. Master Tom ! ” called 
out the sharp voice of Mary Barber 
from the foot of the stairs, come down 
for your lard-cake. It have come out o’ 
the oven beautiful.” 


CHAPTER XX. 

DRIVEN FROM HAREBELL FARM. 

Can you see anybody, Sir Dene ? ” 

“ Who is it ?” asked Sir Dene, turn- 
ing round from his desk, that was drawn 
before the window of his bay-parlor. 
And he spoke in rather an impatient 
tone, for he was busy writing letters, 
and did not care to be interrupted. As 
Gander knew. 

“ It’s young Mr. Owen of Harebell 
Farm,” replied Gander. 

What does he want ? ” questioned 
Sir Dene. “ Is it particular ? ” 

“ Don’t know, sir,” returned Gander. 

He came to the door, and he asked 
could he be let to see Sir Dene : I told 
him I’d C(^me and ask.” 

“ Show him in,” said Sir Dene. 

This colloquy occurred just about the 
time that Master Jarvis had been 
soothed to tranquillity on the sofa with 
some jam at his elbow, as already de- 
scribed, and that the unlucky Tom was 
on the run towards home from Arde 
Hall. For the day is not yet over, and 
we must go back an hour, or so, in it : it 
is not practicable for the cleverest author 
living to describe two series of events 
at once, although they may have taken 
place at one and the same moment of 
time. 

William Owen appeared, shown in by 
Gander : and the baronet shook hands 
with him without rising, and motioned 
him to a chair. He always shook hands 
with his better class of tenants. As to 
any other recognition, or symptom of 
cordiality, William Owen did not get it, 
and did not in the least presume to wish 
for or expect it. Sir Dene had practi- 
cally forgotten that there was any link 
whatever between them, save that of 
landlord and tenant; the past connec- 
tion might have absolutely faded out of 
his thoughts ere this, but for the exis- 
tence of Geoffry and Maria’s child. 


The business that William Owen had 
come upon surprised Sir Dene : and he 
stared at the young man — seated before 
him in the opposite chair, his hat be- 
tween his knees — while he listened to it. 
William Owen wished to transfer the 
lease of Harebell Farm to another ten- 
ant, if Sir Dene would permit. Not at 
present : perhaps not for a long while to 
come : but he wished to do it as soon as 
the time when he could do it should 
arrive. 

‘‘ As long as my mother lives, sir, I 
must stay where I am, for she would not 
like to go out of the house; neither 
would I disturb her by asking it. But 
when she shall have left us — and she 
thinks herself that it mayn’t be over 
long first now — then I shall be glad to 
give it up, and leave the place alto- 
gether.” 

“ What fault have you to find with the 
farm, Mr. Owen?” distantly queried 
Sir Dene. 

“ None, sir. It’s as good land as ever 
I’d wish to cultivate. That’s not the 
reason.” 

“ What is the reason then ? ” 

William Owen seemed at fault for a 
repljL Sir Dene noticed that a look of 
pain sat on his refined and pleasant face. 

“ You must have some reason, Mr. 
Owen, for wishing to quit a productive 
farm.” 

“ True, Sir Dene ; I have. But it is 
one that is quite private to mj^self. I 
can’t speak of it, even to you, sir.” 

Sir Dene looked at him. The same 
contraction of pain was in the face ; the 
same tone of distress lay in the voice. 
He greatly wondered what could be the 
matter. William Owen saw the puzzled 
surprise: and just for a moment, the 
thought crossed him that he would speak 
out fully to Sir Dene. But the impulse 
faded again in a feeling that lay between 
shame and sensitiveness. Perhaps had 
Sir Dene been simply his landlord as he 
Was of other tenants, and no more, the 
disclosure might have been made : but 
that past connection caused William 
Owen to be always retiring and reticent. 
In his sensitive nature, he would not 
have pushed himself forward for the 
world, or presumed in the slightest 
degree. 

“ I have no fault to find with the 
farm or the house or the land, sir ; but 


12S 


DENE HOLLOW. 


# 


I must leave it, for all that. I can’t stay 
in it. And Pd be glad to know before- 
hand that you will allow me to do this, 
so as to have my mind at rest. As long 
as mother is there, there I must be : but 
when she’s gone, I shall go elsewhere.” 

Do I understand that you will leave 
the neighborhood entirely ? ” 

^^Yes, Sir Dene. And get as many 
miles from it as I can.” 

What has it done to you ? ” 

William Owen stroked the nap of his 
white beaver hat with his gloved fore- 
finger : for he had dressed himself as a 
gentleman to hold this interview with 
Sir Dene — and he looked like one too. 
He seemed to be considering what an- 
swer he could make to the question. 

It is just that — what it has done to 
me — that I am unable to tell, sir,” he at 
length replied. “ It is an unfortunate 
and painful affair altogether ; and I 
can’t talk of it.” 

Suppose I do not release you from 
the farm ? ” said Sir Dene. What 
then ? ” 

But I hope you will do it, sir. As 
to what then, Pm sure I don’t know 
what I could do. Perhaps jmu’d let me 
underlet it.” 

Are you going out of the farming 
business ? ” 

“ Not at all, Sir JDene. 1 like it : add 
to that, I don’t know any other. I shall 
meet with a farm elsewhere : perhaps in 
Dorsetshire.” 

You’ll not get a better than this. 
If it’s small, it’s good.” 

And I don’t expect to. Sir Dene. 
If this becomes vacant, there’ll be plenty 
of good tenants glad to snap it up. 
Were it known that I thought of leaving 
it, they’d be here to-morrow. But I’d 
rather there was no stir made at all 
about it, sir : Pd like, when the time 
comes, to be away and gone before it 
was as much as k»own abroad that I 
was leaving. That’s why I am asking 
you to promise to let it be ceded to 
Philip Tillett ; when this time shall 
come : to let me go out and him go in. 
The farm could not have a better tenant, 
Sir Dene, than he.” 

Sir Dene knew that much. A better 
tenant than William Owen himself : in- 
fio-much as that he was a man of larger 
capital. Philip Tillett was a thoroughly 
good farmer. 


“ It seems to me that he will have to 
wait an indefinite time,” remarked Sir 
Dene. Mrs. Owen may get better.” 

He is quite content to wait, sir, 
whether it’s for weeks or whether it’s 
for years. The farm he is in belongs 
to his uncle, and he can go out of it at 
any time. He likes the present one 
very welj j but he’d like Harebell Farm 
better.” 

‘‘ Does he know why you are leav- 
ing ? ” 

“ Yes, sir, I told him. No one else 
knows, not even mother.” 

There ensued a short silence. Sir 
Dene was thinking' this a curious kind 
of application. As in truth it was. 
William Owen, who held a long lease 
of Harebell Farm, was asking to be 
allowed to cede it provisionally to 
Philip Tillett. Provisionally on the 
death of his invalid mother. When 
she should die — and he acknowledged 
that it might be weeks or months, or it 
might be years first, for that’s what the 
doctors said — then he wished to walk 
out of it, leaving Mr. Tillett to walk in. 

Would Tillett take to the stock ? ” 
abruptly questioned Sir Dene, when he 
had arrived at this point in his mental 
summary of events. 

“ To all things as they stand, sir ; 
household furniture included,” replied 
William Owen. “ He knows about 
what the value of everything is as well 
as I do, and he is a just man. We 
shouldn’t quarrel over that.” 

There was something in the young 
man’s refined features, in his gentle 
manners, that put Sir Dene in mind of 
poor Maria, as he had seen her that 
New Year’s Eve when he broke in 
without ceremony on the Malvern lodg- 
ings. Had he wished to refuse this 
thing, he could not, with that remem- 
brance upon him. 

‘‘Well,” he said, rising in intimation 
that the sitting was over, “ I will give 
my consent to this, Mr. Owen. You 
have my word. Though I wish you 
had freely told me your motives for 
leaving. Stay ! Have you got into 
any trouble ? Is it that ? ” 

“None whatever, 1 assure you. Sir 
Dene,” was William Owen’s reply, his 
sensitive face slightly flushing. “ Cir- 
cumstances over which I have no con- 
trol, and could not have any, are driv- 


DRIVEN FROM HAREBELL FARM. 129 


ing me away. I wish it had been other- 
wise.’^ 

‘‘ Then, until there shall he the last 
change in your mgther, things go on as 
they are, and you remain my tenant ? ” 

‘‘ If you please, sir. I thank you 
truly for your kindness to me, Sir 
Dene.” 

Sir Dene shook hands, and William 
Owen let himself out at the vroom door. 
He was just in time, as the reader has 
heard, to see Lady Lydia horsewhip 
Tom. Hearing the cries. Sir Dene 
walked out also. And when the affair 
was over, and he went back to the room, 
he found that the young man followed 
him. Sir Dene was surprised : £fnd 
William Owen shut the door. 

“ I crave your pardon, Sir Dene, for 
presuming to interfere — but I would 
*ike to ask another favor. Let the poor 
little boy come home to us. I’ll bring 
him up and do for him as if he were 
my own.” 

Sir Dene’s face flushed angrily. The 
request seemed to reflect on the hospi- 
tality of Beechhurst Dene. 

“ Come home to you ! ” he exclaimed. 
“ The boy’s home is here, Mr. Owen.” 

“ Yes, sir, 1 know. I know that 
Beechhurst Dene is a very different 
home from any I could hope to give 
him. But at least he’d have kind 
treatment with us. Sir Dene.” 

“ What is it you would imply ? ” 
asked Sir Dene haughtily. 

“ I don’t presume to imply anything, 
sir ; but what I know, I know. Hard- 
ly a day passes, but the child is insult- 
ed and put upon, very often beaten. 
Not by you, sir ; not, I feel sure, with- 
in your knowledge ; but by those about 
you. The best is being done to break 
his heart and his spirit.” 

In the gentlest and most respectful 
tone possible William Owen wms saying 
this. Somehow Sir Dene felt mollified. 
The child was Geoffry’s child, and he 
did not like to hear of his heart or his 
spirit being on the road to breakage. 

“ He has been very naughty at times 
of late, very ; and wLen he is so he 
must be corrected. The boy seems 
quite changed. Spare the rod, and 
spoil the child, you know.” 

Sir Dene, I believe the child to be 
one of the very best children that ever 
8 


lived : he is good and truthful as the 
day ” i 

“ They say he has taken to tell sto- 
ries,” interrupted Sir Dene. “ I can’t 
credit it, though.” 

“No, Sir Dene, believe me, he never 
does tell stories. What I fear is, that 
others tell them and lay it upon him — 
though of course it is not my place to 
say as much. He is regarded as au 
unwelcome interloper here, and treated 
accordingly. There’s not a servant in 
your house. Sir Dene, but could bear 
testimony to this if you questioned 
them — though they might not like to 
confess it. He is a truthful, honorable, 
upright little lad: I don’t think he 
could tell a lie if bribed to it. Witness 
just now how’ he spoke up Yes, wdien 
asked if he was the first to hit Master 
Clan waring. The boy has no chance 
here. I wish you would let me have 
him, sir.” 

“ It is out of the question,” sharply 
replied Sir Dene, feeling vexed and an- 
noyed at more things than one. And 
AVilliam Owen took the answer and de- 
parted by the back entrance. 

It has been said that close upon this 
door the trees and shrubs grew thick, 
almost like a wilderness. Branching 
off from hence on the right a path 
called the privet w^alk (a high privet 
hedge running along on either side it) 
led round to the front ; while the 
straight path that led direct to Hare- 
bell Lane, bore somewhat to the left. 
William Owen was taking this latter 
way, when he saw Squire Arde coming 
along the shady privet walk. Mr. Arde 
made a sign, and William turned to 
meet him. 

“ Is Mrs. Owen worse ? ” was the 
question put. “ I saw Priar hastening 
up your way just now.” 

“ My mother ? No ; liot worse than 
usual,” was the answer. “ He was not 
coming to our house, that I am aware 
of.” 

“ Oh well, I am glad of that. I am 
afraid though, that on the whole she is 
very ill.” 

“ Yes, sir, there’s no doubt of that.*' 

Never presuming, never self-asserting, 
William Owen generally called Squire 
Arde “ sir.” They were, or had been, 
brothers-in-law ; but he did not attempt 


180 


DENE HOLLOW. 


to ignore the social distance between 
them. George Aide in the old days 
had been above his sister : he was a 
great man now in local estimation, on a 
level with Sir Dene Clan waring and 
such as he. Neither did Mr. Arde for- 
get their distance : something in his 
manner betrayed that : nevertheless 
they liked each other very well, and 
were on intimate, not to say confidential, 
terms whenever they met. Standing 
there together in the narrow privet walk, 
the young man told Mr. Arde what his 
errand had been at Sir Dene’s — the re- 
marks on his mother’s state of health 
perhaps inducing it. 

“ Tillett to take to the farm as it 
stands as soon as anything happens to 
her, and you go out of it and quit the 
place altogether ! ” repeated the Squire 
in amazement. Well now, why is this, 
William Owen ? ” 

And William 'Owen told him — told 
him what he had not chosen to disclose 
to Sir Dene. And however the reader 
may feel inclined to cast ridicule on the 
cause, he may not disbelieve the fact : 
for for no other reason did William 
Owen quit Harebell Farm. Speaking 
in a whisper, his pale face wearing again 
its marks of pain, he breathed it into 
Mr. Arde’s ear. The troubled spirit of 
his father, haunting the precincts of the 
farm, was driving him away from it. 

“He has been dead now seven years 
and some months. Squire Arde ; and 
people talked of its walking for more than 
three of those years before I ever saw 
it, or believed it. Altogether I’ve seen 
it three times : the last was on Sunday 
night. News was brought to the farm 
that a poor houseless woman had crept 
into that shed on the two-acre meadow 
to die. I went off to see about it : and 
there, hovering in and around the grove, 
was the spirit, in the same place where 
I had seen it twice before. I saw it 
clearly : ’twas a verj" light night.” 

Squire Arde remembered what a 
bright moon had shone on Sunday night. 
He was not a superstitious man ; but 
nothing could be further from his 
thoughts than to meet this communica- 
tion with contempt : others worthy of 
credibility, had said just the same as 
William Owen. 

“ I can’t make it out, William,” he 
said. “ Are you sure that your eyesight 


was not deceived by some tree or 
other ? ” 

The young man shook his head. 
“ What I saw was undoubtedly the very 
figure and image of my father, looking 
as he used to look in life. He seemed 
to have a coat buttoned-up round him — 
about that I can’t be sure : it was indis- 
tinct — but he wore that same magpie 
cap that he was drowned in : and his 
silver beard was never plainer. I was 
thinking of nothing but the woman in 
the shed, and what could be done with 
her at that time o’ night ; and there, as 
I went along toward the grove, the fig- 
ure stood facing me, right in the moon- 
beams.” 

“It is strangely singular!” exclaim- 
ed the Squire. “The queerest thing 
I’ve met with in all my experience.” 

“ Stay on the place, I cannot,” said 
William Owen. ““It unnerves me for 
everything — though I should feel 
ashamed to acknowledge it to most 
people. The very moment my poor 
mother sets me at liberty by leaving me 
alone in the world, I shall get away. 
But for her sake, I’d go to-morrow.” 

He had turned to walk towards Hare- 
bell Lane, Mr. Arde strolling by his 
side. William Owen changed the sub- 
ject to that of the child : mentioning 
the cruel chastisement he had witnessed, 
and what he had subsequently said to 
Sir Dene. 

“When I shall be gone from the 
place, perhaps you’ll give the poor lad a 
kind word now and then, sir. He’ll 
have nobody else to do it. I’d have 
liked to take him home to Harebell 
Farm : Sir Dene was mortally offended 
at me for asking it.” 

“Lady Lydia and her children put 
upon him and thrust him into the 
background,” remarked Mr. Arde. 
“She has got a nasty temper of her 
own.” 

They parted. William Owen pursu- 
ing his way home, where he found Ma- 
ry Barber making a miniature lard-cake 
for Tom : Mr. Arde entering the bay- 
parlor at Beechhurst Dene. Sir Dene 
was in one of his test}’ humors, and said 
a few fractious words about “ Things 
going cross in the house.” 

“ Young Owen has been taking upon 
himself to tell me that the child— my 
boy Geoffry’s son — is not well treated 


DRIVEN FROM HAREBELL FARM. 


here ! ’’ he cried in an explosive tone. 
“ Fancy his assurance, Arde ! ” 

“ Then I’ll take up the word for him, 
Sir Dene, at the risk of your attributing 
assurance to me,” spoke up Mr. Arde, 
half- laughing. ‘‘In this instance, at 
any rate, the child did not deserve chas- 
tisement — though I fancy somebody else 
may. If that ill-natured young Jarvey 
came home with a false tale — as I con- 
clude he did — it is he who ought to have 
got the whipping.” 

“ What do you know about it, 
Arde ? ” 

Mr. Arde related the truth of the day’s 
fray — as he had heard it but now from 
his haymakers, in coming through the 
field: and, as he remarked, they were 
unbiassed witnesses. He spoke out far 
more freely than William Owen had 
ventured to do, telling a few home truths 
about Tom and Jarvey, and the Dene 
in general, including the baronet him- 
self. Sir Dene’s blue eyes opened (in 
more senses than one) and his lips took 
a haughty curve as he listened. 

“ A false, ill-conditioned young ras- 
cal ! ” spoke he of Jarvey. “ It’s the 
first time I ever knew a Clanwaring 
could concoct a deliberate lie.” 

“ His mother is nut a Clanwaring,” 
observed Squire Arde dryly. And the 
baronet gave a kind of assenting sniff. 

“ No, he has nothing of the Clanwar- 
ing about him at present,” pursued the 
Squire. “ Little Tom’s one to the back- 
bone : he is his father over again. They 
look upon the poor child as being in the 
way here, you see : don’t let them quite 
break his spirit. There, that’s all, Sir 
Dene. Good morning.” 

Break his spirit ! The same words 
that William Owen had used. Had 
Jarvey been there at the moment. Sir 
Dene might have three parts killed 
him. With the red flush dyeing his 
face, he strode forth to the presence of 
Lady Lydia. She was in the drawing- 
room. 

Sir Dene controlled his temper, and 
spoke quietly. Quietly, but very per- 
emptorily. He touched slightly upon 
the treatment of Tom by her and her 
children generally — the scandal he found 
it excited in the neighborhood, the dis- 
comfort it brought to the Dene. And 
he said that for the future she had bet- 
ter take lodgings at Worcester during 


131 

holiday time, and have her children 
there with her. 

Lady Lydia’s blood turned cold : was 
it possible that her footiiig at the Dene 
was being imperilled ? In her mind’s 
confusion, in her angry passion, she did 
the worst thing she could have done — 
began to cast slurs on Tom and his 
birth. 

Were her darling children to be dis- 
carded for that low-born brat, whose 
mother 

“ Why what the devil do you mean, 
madam ? ” interrupted Sir Dene, too 
much put out altogether to weigh his 
words. “ Low-born ! You are speaking 
of my own grandson, Tom Clanwaring.” 

“ He is not fit company for my boys. 
Sir Dene.” 

“ If what I am told be true, they are 
not fit company for him — one of them 
at any rate,” retorted Sir Dene. “ You 
can take them out of it as soon as you 
please, my lady.” 

Her very lips turned white. Before 
this, she had believed she had acquired 
firm hold on Sir Dene. He looked like 
one not to be trifled with just now. 
An angry man, there, pacing the carpet. 

“ You — would — turn my children out 
for him ? ” she resumed, in a subdued 
gasping tone, partly put on, partly the 
result of the low-lying fear. “ Oh, Sir 
Dene ! ” 

“ My lady, it is this. The home i=} 
my grandson Tom’s; it was his home 
before any of you came to it ; it shall 
be his home as long as it remains mine. 
I was willing to let it be your children’s 
also : but it seems the plan does not an- 
swer. It is my pleasure that Tom 
Clanwaring shall be honored in this 
house, ay, and be loved too, at least as 
much as anybody else is. Your children 
will not do this ; they have taken up a 
prejudice against him : therefore there 
is only one alternative — they must spend 
their summer and winter holidays else- 
where.” 

No mistake now. He was in real 
earnest. My lady, smoothing her black 
hair from her pale face all damp with 
emotion, changed her tactics on the in- 
stant. She would enquire into it, she 
meekly said ; if Jarvis had been know- 
ingly ur^kind to the child or told fibs of 
him, he should be punished. For her 
own part, she had always thought Tom 


132 


DENE HOLLOW. 


a sweet little angel. Children would 
light thougli ; boys would be boys. But 
the little child should be her best and 
special charge for the future, now that 
she understood Sir Dene’s wishes. 

My lady gathered her three children 
in her room that same evening to a pri- 
vate interview, and treated them to sun- 
dry tutorings. Dovet also received some 
. hints. The result was, that Tom found 
a change : there was no more open ill- 
treatment, no further complaints of him 
carried to Sir Dene. And nothing .else 
was said about the exodus. 

But my lady’s resolution — to “put Tom 
down — had not changed : she only al- 
tered her tactics. As the time passed 
on, this little episode was forgotten by 
Sir Dene. Easy and good-natured to a 
fault, was be ; Lady Lydia’s sway over 
him when he was at Beechhurst Dene 
increased, during his frequent absences 
she reigned absolutely. And Tom Clan- 
waring was taught and trained to look 
upon himself, as a poor dependent, kept 
at the place out of charity ; an inter- 
loper, but not a son. And Tom insensi- 
bly fell into these views of himself in 
all belief, and learned humility. More 
specious than deceit itself was the Lady 
Lydia Clauwaring. 

/ 

CHAPTER XXI. 

AFTER THE LAPSE OF YEARS. 

This, as you perceive, is the second 
part of the story. Years have elapsed 
since the conclusion of the first : and 
those children, boys and girls, told of 
then, have grown into men and w'omen. 

There is not very much to relate of 
the interval. Time has wrought some 
changes — as time invariably does. They 
may be briefly summed up in a few lines. 
And it may be as well to state that, in 
spite of the lapse of time, we are still 
writing of a period very many years 
back. 

Sir Dene Clanwaring has lost both 
his sons: John the heir and Reginald 
the major. The one died of a neglected 
cold ; the other fell in battle. Pretty 
Mrs. Clanwaring, John’s widow, is mar- 
ried again, and lives chiefly at her hus- 
band’s estate in Scotland. Her two 
sous, Dene and Charles, nice pleasant 


young fellows with plenty of money in 
prospect, and her only children living, 
are very often staying with their grand- 
father, Sir Dene ; the elder of the two, 
Dene, being his heir. Their sister, 
Margaret, had died at Beechhurst Dene 
only two years ago, under circumstances 
of a painful nature : Sir Dene, who was 
very fond of her, has not been quite the 
same man since. 

Lady Lj’dia Clanwaring is at Beech- 
hurst Dene still. She has never, in fact, 
been away from it since that autumn 
night when she arrived to take, up her 
abode. Up to the time her husband 
died, she was always ‘‘going back to In- 
dia shortly after his death, she had 
no home even to talk of going to, and 
no means of setting-up one — ever5^body 
knows what is the pension of a major’s 
widow. So she remained at Beechhurst 
Dene without question as to her leaving 
it; and her children looked upon it as 
their home just as surely as though they 
had a legal right to it. Lady Lydia had 
really grown useful to Sir Dene : and her 
tact (she never forgot it again,) was 
such that he valued her, and quite be 
lieved the household could not get on 
without lier. Her daughter, Louisa had 
married early; Jarvis was in the army; 
Otto was a barrister in Lincoln’s Inn. 

Tom Clanwaring had not been got oat 
of the Dene. The fac^t is worthy of be- 
ing recorded, considering Lady Lydia’s 
private machinations to accomplish it. 
Never again had she tried for it openly 
since that one last great explosion, when 
Sir Dene had suggested that she and 
her children should go, rather than Tom. 
Indeed she soon gave up hoping for it, 
and let the foct alone. But she had suc- 
cessfully managed to put Tom in the 
back-ground, and keep him there. He 
was reared as an inferior-born dependent, 
who must never presume to confound 
himself with the genuine Clanwaring 
family. Sir Dene insensibly fell into 
the snare, habit is, strong; the neighbor- 
hood fell into it ; Tom himself fell into 
it. During his boyhood he was kept 
away at school as much as possible : in 
the holidays he met with cold neglect; 
was made to estrange himself from the 
drawing-room, and to herd with the ser- 
vants. It taught him humility. Sir 
Dene honored and regarded him as his 
grandson just as much as he did the 


AFTER THE LAPSE OF YEARS. 


133 


other hoys, in his heart he loved Tom 
best of all : but nevertheless he tacitly 
sanctioned Tom’s being put in the back- 
ground. Habit, I say, is strong; and 
this had grown into the habit at the 
Dene. 

When Tom Clanwaring grew to man- 
hood, his occupation rendered this isola- 
tion from the rest, or semi-isolation, easy 
of accomplishment. Tom was to the 
estate very much what his father had 
been — overlooker. When the lad was 
driven to seek sources out of doors by 
the home neglect, he had found them on 
the laud. With Dell the bailiff, riding 
or walking round ; watching for poachers 
with Simmons the game-keeper ; follow- 
ing the plough to have a chat with the 
ploughman ; sitting in a corner of the 
barn, eating his bread-and-cheese din- 
ner, while the men threshed the wheat ; 
helping to load the wagon with barley ; 
going to the corn-market at Worcester 
with Dell : in all places and at all work, 
Tom was at home. Nothing teaches 
like practical experience : and there 
were few better farmers in the county 
than was Tom Clanwaring. It had not 
pleased Sir Dene to give him any pro- 
fession : perhaps he had all along intend- 
ed (seeing his aptitude for it) to make 
him useful on the estate : or perhaps he 
did not care to send Tom. away from him. 
When Tom left school, Dell was in fail- 
ing health : and the lad at once took 
upon himself a portion of his duties, 
helping him all he could. It was only 
natural that on the bailiff ’s death two or 
three years afterwards, Tom should slip 
into the place. There had been no reg- 
ular appointment of him by Sir Dene — 
as had been the case with his father, 
Geoffry ; but Tom was the bailiff to all 
intents and purposes. 

The Lady Lydia, though not cor- 
dially approving this, did not actively 
oppose it. There was no longer any 
motive for wishing to banish Tom Clan- 
waring. He had been effectually put 
down in the house, and was too insig- 
nificant to trouble her : but the idea did 
dimly d^oss her mind, she could not tell 
why or wherefore, that it might be as 
well for him not to be the overseer of 
the land. Perhaps she thought it might 
give him power — a hold on the place. 
Therefore she advised Sir Dene not to 
keep Tom at home, but rather give him 


some calling, profession, or occupation, 
out in the world. For once Sir Dene 
did not listen to her. There was nobody 
so fit to be on the estate as Tom, he 
said : look how he had been robbed and 
imposed upon, especially since Dell had 
been less able to attend to his business ; 
Tom was, so to say, a born farmer as 
poor Geoff had been ; he had got his 
head on his shoulders the right way, as 
Geoff had, and would take care of 
things as he did : who else was there, 
he finall}^ put it to my Lady that was 
capable of looking after his interests in 
this way, save Tom. 

Who else was there ? She put it to 
herself, and the answer came — none. 
And yet, instinct did seem to foretell 
danger in J'om’s becoming this perma- 
nent fixture. In vain she appealed to 
her two sons ; pointing out that it might 
be better worth while for one of them to 
take this post than to toil upwards in 
their respective professions. Jarvis was 
simply astonished, somewhat as John 
the heir had been on a similar appeal 
once before. Jarvis stroked his black 
moustache in supercilious incredulity. 
He an overlooker! he taking upon him- 
self the office of bailiff! He asked his 
mother whether she had lost her senses. 
Reginald civill}’' replied that he knew 
nothing about land and its management 
— which was true — and that his tastes 
and wishes lay in quite a different line 
of life. So Lady Lydia dropped the 
point, and Tom went on with his duties 
unmolested. He had nothmg to do 
with the accounts ; Sir Dei^i had kept 
those himself for many years. 

Thus, with all his bu diiess. lying out 
of doors, it will readily be understood 
how easy it was for Tom’s estrangement 
from the family circle to be taken as a 
matter of course by Sir Dene. It was 
often one of convenience or necessity: 
and he would hastily eat what he wanted 
in the housekeeper’s room and be off 
again. Except on Sundays, Tom did 
not much trouble the family : if by 
chance he dressed himself and went in, 
he got cold looks and contemptuous 
silence for his welcome. His business 
with Sir Dene was transacted in the 
bay parlor : and the latter would some- 
times say, “ Can’t you manage to be a 
bit more with ’em, Tom ? ” Tom never 
said why he did not. If Lady Lydia or 


134 


DENE HOLLOW. 


her eldest son met Tom out on the land, 
they passed him with the indifference 
the}’ would have accorded to any of the 
men. As to Tom himself, he had grown 
up to be just what his childhood prom- 
ised. Truthful, honorable, upright, 
generous : of singularly modest and 
pleasing manners, patient - natured, 
sweet-tempered, altogether of sterling 
worth and goodness. Mrs. Owen had 
lived long enough to do her work effi- 
ciently, and to see the excellent seed she 
had sown strike firm root in his mind 
and heart. 

Harebell Farm had had another mas- 
ter for some years now. Mrs. Owen lay 
by her husband in Hurst Leet church- 
yard (though if popular gossip might 
be believed, he did not lie quietly, even 
yet), and William Owen had migrated 
into Dorsetshire. Philip Tiilett occupied 
Harebell Farm. It was well known 
that Kandy Black’s vexation was exces- 
sive when he found the farm had been 
ceded privately to Mr. Tiilett. Some 
friend of Black’s, with a good amount of 
money and apparently respectable char- 
acter, had been looking out for it — for 
the fact that Owen entertained thoughts 
of leaving had oozed out — and Black 
openly said it was a mean trick Sir Dene 
had served the public. However, the 
‘‘ trick” was one that nobody had power 
to undo. Mr. Tiilett went into the farm, 
and told Black to his face that if he saw 
Kobert Owen’s ghost every night of his 
life it would not drive him oft‘ it again. 
Neverthelesi in spite of his brave as- 
sertion. it observed that Mr. Tii- 
lett did y>i: Limself much in the 

way of the grd\lj^ of trees by the two- 
acre meadow i.-fter dark, which that 
supernatural figure with the silver beard 
was wont to haunt in the moonlight. 
Not that there was any authentic or re- 
corded history of its having been seen 
for some years past now. And that is 
enough of retrospection. 

It was a green Christmas: bright, 
lovely, almost as warm as spring : and 
as the congregation turned out of Hurst 
Leet church, they congratulated each 
other on the fine w’eather as much as on 
the festive day. Everybody had walked 
to church : there was no necessity to 
bring out carriages on such a day as 
this. 


Everybody, except one : Sir Dene 
Clanwaring. Hale as of old, though his 
years had long passed those allotted as 
the age of man, he had a weakness in 
his limbs that rendered much walking, 
or exertion of any kind, difficult. As he 
stepped from his pew, allowing most of 
the congregation to depart first. Lady 
Lydia held out her arm, and he took it. 
She counted more than fifty 3’ears now : 
but she was tall and meagre as ever, 
looking the scarcrow she always did, her 
face worn and sharp, her small black 
ej’-es grievously restless. But that it 
was very, much the natural expression of 
her face, one might have said some in- 
ward torment troubled her. Sir Dene’s 
pew had been full that day, for all his 
grandchildren had come to the Dene for 
Christmas. They might be seen, most 
of them, wending their way homewards 
beyond the churchyard. 

Close by the waiting pony carriage, 
stood a jmung, slender, gentlemanly 
man. His fair, fresh Saxon face, with 
its fine frank features and good-natured 
deep blue eyes, was something strangely 
pleasant. Those who were old enough 
to remember Geoffry Clanwaring could 
never need to ask who it was, the like- 
ness was so great. He had waited, he so 
tall and strong, to assist his grandfather 
into the carriage and drive him home — 
as he had driven him in coming. But 
Lady Lydia turned about impatiently, 
looking for some one else to do it. 

Take^eare, Tom. The other leg up.” 

Shall 1 drive you, sir ? ” asked Tom, 
when he had carefully placed him in : 
for, reared in the habits of complete 
submission, he never presumed to put 
himself forward even to do a service, 
without first asking leave. 

“ Aye, do : my hands are cold.” 

Lady Lydia interposed. She pushed 
Tom aside : not rudely, but with cool, 
indifierent hauteur, and stepped in her- 
self. He did not appear in the least re- 
sentful; he had been used to nothing 
but this contemptuous indifference al- 
ways ; and he arranged her petticoats 
under the warm rug with as much assid- 
uous attention to her comfort as he had 
evinced for that of Sir Dene. 

“ I was not aware you intended to go 
with Sir Dene yourself. Lady Lydia,” he 
remarked, his tone one of courteous 
apology. 


AFTER THE LAPSE OF YEARS. 


185 


There, that will do,’^ she said, cut- 
ting him short. “ Give me the reins.’^ 

“ 'No,” spoke Sir Dene : who retained 
all his old detestation of being driven by 
a woman ; and who would rather have 
had his grandson by his side than her : 

Give them to me, Tom. I shall drive, 
myself, Lydia.’’ 

With a flourish of the whip and a 
cheery bow to the few villagers and peas- 
antry who had staj^ed to watch the de- 
parture, Sir Dene drove on, Tom lifting 
his hat to Lady Lydia with as happy a 
smile as ever sat on man’s face yet. "Do 
not mistake him, or think this courtes}’- 
to her put on — as in truth it well might 
have been, considering all things : but 
the frank sweetness of Tom Clanwaring’s 
nature was such, that he had genuinely 
kind looks even for her. Sir Dene’s 
progress was not a rapid one : many ac- 
quaintances were waiting for a word or 
a hand-shake, and the pony was pulled 
up continually. Tom’s long legs soon 
got ahead of it: and he overtook two 
ladies : mother and daughter, as might 
be seen by the likeness : nice looking 
women with pretty features and com- 
plexions of delicate bloom : but the 
young lady’s face was pleasanter in ex- 
pression than her mother’s. 

“ Mrs. Arde, I wish you a merry 
Christmas.” 

Mrs. Arde turned at the greeting. 

Is it you, Tom Clanwaring ? Thank 
you. I wish you the same.” 

Her tone was not a cordial one. The 
best that could be said of it was that it 
was coldly civil. Liking Tom in her 
heart as much as ever, a certain thought 
had startled her lately, and caused her 
to treat him very distantly : it might 
have been supposed that she was taking 
a lesson out of Lad}^ Lydia Clanwaring’s 
book. Miss Arde did not speak to Tom 
at all : but as she glanced up shyly there 
shone a smile of welcome in her rich 
brown eyes, and the rose-bloom deepened 
to carnation on her dimpled cheeks. 

Tom just touched her hand. And 
a very merry Christmas to you, May,” 
he said in a low tone. 

The little carriage came rattling up. 

“ What has taken Arde that he was not 
at church to-day?” called out Sir Dene, 
as he checked the pony. 

Mrs. Arde went round to the baro- 
net's side. “ Oh, Sir Dene, I am sorry 


to say that he is ill. It is one of his 
bilious attacks. We left him in bed.” 

^‘In bed !” echoed Sir Dene. “That 
won’t do at all, you know, Mrs. Arde. 
We dine at five, sharp. He must not 
fail us.” 

“ I hope not. He expects to be bet- 
ter by that time.” 

Lady Lydia’s keen glances were tak- 
ing in everything — as they had a habit 
of doing. Tom Clanwaring was talk- 
ing to Miss Arde : and she noted that 
the young lady^ eyes were cast down as 
she listened, that her face was flushed 
to a beautiful crimson. My lady drew 
in her thin lips : she did not like the 
signs any more than did Mrs. “Arde. 
But at this moment there came up one 
from the opposite direction, one who 
could always dispel the gloom on Lady 
Lydia’s face — her eldest and best-belov- 
ed son. 

Two peas were never more alike than 
Jarvis Clanwaring and his mother ; not 
a bit of the Clanwaring was there about 
him in looks. Tall, lean, dark, he had 
the same thin compressed lips as hers, 
the shifty black eyes. His black mous- 
tache was fierce, even for a soldier, very 
fierce indeed for those days when such 
an adornment was uncommon, and he 
had altogether a worn, dissipated air. 
But Captain Clanwaring was popular 
with his friends and the world. A 
serious attack of illness had entailed a 
long leave of absence to recruit health, 
and he passed his time agreeably be- 
tween London and Beechhurst Dene. 

“ Jarvis,” began Sir Dene, the tone 
a peremptory one, “ why were jmu not 
at church to-day ? ” 

“ I overslept myself, sir.” 

“Overslept yourself! Well, I don’t 
know. I asked after you half an hour 
before I came out, and Gander told me 
you were up, and letter-writing in your 
room. I choose that everybody about 
me shall attend church on Christmas 
Day. I thought you knew that.” 

Jarvis Clanwaring slowly raised his 
hat in response, by way of cutting short 
the discussion. A keen observer — which 
Sir Dene was not, and never had been — 
might have detected some covert scorn 
in the action. With a hearty adieu to 
the ladies, and telling them not to be 
late for dinner, Sir Dene drove on. 

One little incident may be mentioned 


V6o 


DENE HOLLOW. 


of the drive home. At the turning to 
the road, Dene Hollow, Sir Dene drew 
the right rein, and kept the pony on 
the straight road — the old, long round. 
‘‘ Oh, pray don’t go that way. Sir 
Dene ! ” interposed Lady Lydia with 
fractious haste, “ I want to get home. 
Take Dene Hollow.” A shade of an- 
noyance crossed Sir Dene’s face ; but he 
complied, and let the pony take the way 
he had wished to avoid. Slowly he 
drove now, at a snail’s walk : gentle 
though the ascent was, Sir Dene Clan- 
waring had grown to dread Dene Hol- 
low. 

Meanwhile Jarvis and Tom Clanwar- 
ing continued to walk along with Mrs. 
and Miss Arde. In a line at first ; but 
as they turned off to the narrow path, 
the nearest way to Arde Hall, they had 
to separate : Mrs. Arde in front with 
Captain Clan waring, Tom and May 
behind. The Lady Lydia, bowling on 
in the direction of Beechhurst Dene, 
mentally saw the position as surely as 
Mrs. Arde saw it. It did not continne 
long : at the entrance to the enclosed 
fp’ove belonging to the Hall, the ladies 
v/ished the young men good morning, 
aiid the latter went on. 

Walking in silence. Captain Clan- 
waring never wasted superfluous words 
on Tom the scapegoat : Jarvis was 
twenty-seven now, Tom twenty-four, 
Tom’s intelligent eye was noting' all 
points as they walked, with the quiet 
air of one who knows every inch of the 
land. The officer loqked out straight 
before him, seeing nothing: buried ii, 
thought, was he, and not pleasant 
thought. Thus they came in view of 
the rural lodge where Tom was born, 
and Maria, his pretty mother, had died. 
Sfmmons the game-keeper lived in it 
now. Jarvis pointed to it with a wave 
of his hand. 

“ Go across and tell Simmons I shall 
want him to go out with me betimes to- 
morrow morning. And to mind that he 
brings my own gun this time.” 

There was supercilious command in 
every tone of the voice, in every gesture 
of the raised hand. Tom Clan waring 
turned off with the obedience of a child : 
he had been made to know that Jarvis 
and Otto were as his masters. Half 
way through the trunks of the bare 
trees, a thought caused him to halt. 


To-morrow morning, Jarvis ? ” 

“ I said to-morrow morning. Can’t 
you hear ? ” 

But to-morrow will be Sunday ! ” 
Well ? ” 

Sir Dene would not like it. Only 
think if he beard the guns ! ” 

“ I want none of your remarks, Tom 
Clan waring. Do as you are told ! ” 

And Tom went to do it. 

Lady Lydia Clauwaring, her bonnet 
and shawl thrown off, met her son in 
the hall when he entered. Clutching at 
his arm, as one who is in anger or pain, 
she drew him to the fire — a large bright 
fire of wood playing in the hearth of 
the hall. Standing there, ostensibly 
warming her hands before going into 
luncheon, she spoke to him eagerly and 
impressively ; but so quietly that Gan- 
der, who happened to pass, never saw 
that her lips moved. 

“Every hour of your existence you 
vex me, Jarvis ! Why are you not more 
cautious ? You fly in the face of Sir 
Dene’s prejudices in the most foolish, 
reckless manner possible. To think that 
you should have stayed away from 
church ! ” 

“A man, worried as I am, has no 
fancy for church or for anything else,” 
returned Captain Clanwaring in a half 
indifferent, half-sullen tone. “ As to 
studying the old man’s prejudices — 
whether I study them or whether I don’t, 
it seems to come to the same thing : no 
money. Have you asked him again ? ” 
“It’s not likely. Were I to enter 
upon business matters to-day, he would 
only stop me. Jarvis, indeed I don’t 
think I shall be able to get it. I have 
had so much money from him for you 
that I am driven to my very wits’ end 
to invent excuses for its use. I can’t 
.say it’s for Louisa this time, because 
she’s here and he might question her 
himself: neither can I say it is for Otto, 
for the same reason. In these scarce 
visits that Otto pays us, I am kept in a 
state of chronic terror, lest the old man 
should speak to him and discover that 
he knows nothing of the sums of money 
he is supposed to have drawn. Otto 
was always so inconveniently truthful, 
you know.” 

“ He is a close, steady-going muff. I 
know that.” 

“ Try Dene again.” 


AFTEH THE LAPSE OF YEARS. 


137 


“ Ko good, mother. He told" me yes- 
terday I had bled him once too often : 
and meant it too. The goose is killed 
in that quarter.’’ 

Well, Jarvis, I onlj'- speak the truth 
when I tell you that I believe it will not 
be possible for me to get you this money 
that you want. Sir Dene suspects, I 
think. He is not so cordial with you as 
he used to be — and you do nothing espe- 
cially to conciliate him. Why were yoii 
not at hand to drive him to church and 
back?” 

“ Because I didn’t go myself,” was 
the cool rejoinder. “ I must have the 
money ; I cannot do without it. It 
would bring ruin and double ruin.” 

There was a pause. Captain Clan- 
waring lifted his shapely boot — in dress 
he was one of the greatest dandies go- 
ing — and pushed a falling log on to the 
blazing hearth. His mother thought 
what a handsome leg and foot it was. 

‘^Why don’t you make, better play 
with Mary Arde, Jarvis ? ” 

“ Why don’t I ! You must ask that 
qaestion of herself, my lady. She is a 
vast deal more inclined to make play 
v'ith the goat than she is with me. I 
suspected it when I was down here 
last.” 

“ Ridiculous ! ” replied Lady Lydia, 
her tone one of passionate irritation. 
‘“That is perfectly absurd, Jarvis; and 
you know it. He mate with Mary Arde ! 
The very idea is an outrage on social 
decency.” 

“ I know that she likes him. And 
that she does not like me.” 

“ Don’t talk so loud. I tell you you 
might as well accuse her of a liking for 
heir father’s bailiff as for Tom Clan war- 
ing. What else is he but a bailiff? 

You what did you say, Jones?” 

broke off Lady Lydia, as a servant came 
out of the dining-room, and spoke. 

“ Luncheon is waiting, my lady ; and 
Sir Dene is asking for you.” 

Lady Lydia gave a final rub to her 
hands over the blaze, and went into the 
dining-room. But when the man said 
^ Luncheon is waiting,” he used a figure 
of speech. Sir Dene never waited lunch- 
eon for anybody, and he had nearly fin- 
ished now. It was only simple fare : 
they had breakfasted at nine and would 
dine at five. The table appeared to be 
crowded, but Lady Lydia’s place at its 


head was left vacant. Dene the heir 
sat at it and his brother Charles, pleas- 
ant-looking slight young fellows, hardly 
out of their teens. Otto was there ; a 
dark, short , man of twenty-six, steady 
looking enough to have had his barris- 
ter’s wig on his head out of court as 
well as in it. Louisa, the wife of Col- 
onel Letsom, and her three little ones. 
Sir Dene’s great grand-children, com- 
pleted the party. Captain Clanwaring 
looked out for a seat. 

“ You young ones must sit closer to- 
gether,” remarked Lady Lydia in rather 
a cross tone, for she could not bear that 
her favorite son should be put out in the 
very smallest degree. “ They might 
have taken their luncheon up-stairs, 
Louisa: they are going to dine with 
us. Make room for your Uncle Jarvis.” 

“You can have my seat, Jarvis,” in- 
terposed Sir Dene, rising, and catching 
up his stick to leave the room. As Jar- 
vis sat down, ill-humored as usual, he 
said something about hoping the dinner- 
table would not be as crowded, for it was 
possible one or two of his friends might 
be dropping in. 

“The dinner-table is always large 
enough when we know how many are to 
be at it,” said Lady Lydia. “ Of course 
it will be full to-day. In case of an un- 
expected guest arriving late, Tom Clan- 
waring must eat his dinner below.” 

“ I’ll be shot if he shall ! ” exclaimed 
young Dene with all the authority of 
the baronet’s heir.„ “ It is Christmas 
Day, Aunt Lydia, dS|j>d Tom shall have 
his place at table for once as well as the 
rest of us. It’s not often he gets it.” 

Lady Lydia, cutting a piece of cake, 
cut it so sharply that the plate nearly 
came in two. Dene began again : he 
and Charles both liked Tom. 

“ Ko. If Tom’s place at table is 
filled up to-day, he shall have mine. It 
would never do for him to be absent. 
What would May Arde say ? ” 

Dene threw out this little shaft mis- 
chievously : he had his suspicions of 
many things, and privately hoped that 
Tom would in some magical manner get 
May, rather than cross-grained Varges. 
My lady’s green cheek turned a shade 
greener : and it is a positive fact that in 
moments of anr yance her pale, putty 
complexion took a tinge of green. At 
this iuncture, in came Tom. 


138 


DENE HOLLOW. 


Nobody moved, nobodj’ made room 
for him. Dene began ordering the 
children to sit closer, “ two of you on a 
chair,” but Tom settled the matter b}' 
lifting one of them, taking the chair 
himself, and putting the child on his 
knee. Social, cordial, ever sweet-tem- 
pered, it was impossible for children to 
help loving Tom Clanwaring: and the 
little thing laughed in glee, and put 
her fat hand up to stroke the smiling 
Saxon face. 

“ Did you see Simmons — and give 
him my message?” demanded Captain 
Clanwaring of Tom, without the super- 
fluous courtesy of looking at him. 

Yes.” 

What did he say ? ” 

‘‘Dll tell you by and by, Jarvis.” 


CHAPTER XXII. 

SIR dene’s repentance. 

Sir Dene Clanwaring passed a 
good deal of his time now in his cham- 
ber, or in the small sitting-room next it. 
He was a different man from what he 
used to be : since he had been unable 
to take long walks in the open air, but 
was confined much of necessity to his 
chair or sofa, there was less of open, 
easy indifference in his manner, more 
of silent care. Advancing years and 
infirmities brought serious thought in 
their train : and e|rents had helped it 
on. 

Strange though it may seem to have 
to sa}’^ it, stranger still to believe it, but 
it is nevertheless true, a great remorse, 
repentance, grief — call it what you will 
— had seized on Sir Dene Clanwaring. 
And for what? For having made the 
road, Dene Hollow. In the lapse of 
years that we have skipped, and of 
which no record has been taken, acci- 
dents had continued to occur occasion- 
ally : and cautious people preferred to 
go the old round way, rather than use 
it. But, in all the mishaps that had 
taken place there, only one had, been 
fatal : and that was to the grand-daugh- 
ter Sir Dene so fondly loved — Margaret 
Clanwaring, A conviction seized hold 
upon him that the death of this fair 
young girl was nothing more .than a 


retribution on himself, sent direct from 
Heaven. 

Sir Dene had surely sent the Widow 
Barber to her grave earlier than she 
would have gone : he had grown to see 
the fact clearly, and it carne home to 
him in these later years with a great 
remorse. He never spoke of it : but 
the shadow of it lay on his mind always 
— ^just as the other Shadow was said to 
lie at times on the unlucky road. The 
poor widow was more often in his men- 
tal eye than he would have liked to con- 
fess : not as he had first known her, the 
hale, red-cheeked little woman stirring 
actively amidst her milk-pans \vith her 
more than seventy years on her back ; 
but as he had happened to meet her a 
few days before she died : hollow of 
face, sad of eyes, wasted to a shadow\ 
Sir Dene remembered that he had turn- 
ed to look after her in some doubt, de- 
bating whether that worn woman could 
be Mrs. Barber. 

Bending forward from his armchair 
in the room above, on this Christmas 
afternoon, his hands clasped on the top 
of his stick, his blue coat off and a loose 
one on, sat Sir Dene, thinking of this ; 
and of some other things that annoyed 
him, but in a less degree. Lady Lydia 
came in to disturb him. Lady Lydia 
was wont to boast in a quiet waj’’ of her 
influence over Sir Dene — that she oould 

turn him round her little finger.” In 
truth he^'elded very much to her sway, 
for he hated contention and loved to be 
at ease more than ever. The wush to 
get Tom Clanwaring away from the 
Dene, which had lain in abeyance for so 
many years, had sprung up anew of late 
in my lady’s heart : the interests of her 
dear son, Jarvis, were rendering Tom’s 
absence from the place, as she believed, 
imperatively necessary. Jarvis must 
secure May Arde and her twenty thou- 
sand pounds to get him out of his terri- 
ble embarrassments : it would never do 
for Tom to stand in the way. There 
was no fear of Tom’s marrying Miss 
Arde : their relative positions forbade 
that : but Tom was a remarkably good- 
looking young fellow (though it went 
against the grain for my lady to ac- 
knowledge, even mentally, that fact), 
and he and the young lady seemed to be 
on the best of terms. If she got a fan- 
cy into her head that she liked Tom, 


SIR DENE’S REPENTANCE. 


189 


she might: — why yes she might — reject 
Jarvis! To guard against this, Tom 
must quit the neighborhood ; and not 
continue to see more of Maj^ while he 
stayed in it than could be helped. 
Turning these things about in her mind, 
Lady Lydia quite determined, as a pre- 
liminary, that Tom should not sit down 
to the Christmas dinner table that even- 
ing when May would be present. At 
least, if any clever scheming of her own 
could prevent it. 

Stirring Sir Dene’s fire into a blaze, 
she took a chair opposite him, and be- 
gan talking of a subject that was sure 
to excite Sir Dene’s ire — poaching and 
poachers. There had been more trouble 
Lorn that cause on the estate this winter 
than was ever known before. Night 
after night these marauders came about 
in the most audacious manner ; and 
wdth impunity, for they had never once 
been caught. Randy Black was sus- 
pected to be the ringleader; and Sir 
Dene had gone the length of causing 
the Trailing Indian to be searched : but 
no game was found. In talking of it 
now. Sir Dene, as usual, grew excited, 
and said that this should be done, and 
the other should be done ; my lady 
agreeing in all, and suggesting measures 
on her own score. Thus the afternoon 
wore awa3\ 

After luncheon. Captain Clanwaring 
had gone out somewhere, returning 
home at about half past four o’clock. 
Tom Clanwaring was standing by the 
hall fire when he came in, and took the 
opportunit}' of telling him that Simmons 
refused to attend him on the morrow. 

“ What the devil do you mean ? — or 
does he mean?” demanded the captain. 

“ What he said to me was this : That 
he’d not go out shooting on a Sunday' 
for anybody, neither would Sir Dene 
allow him. You cannot expect the man 
to do it, Jarvis,” added Tom in a tone 
of reason. “ Putting other considera- 
tions aside, it wmuld never do for the« 
guns to be heard in our woods on a 
Sunday.” 

Jarvis swore a little — at Tom for his 
gratuitous opinion, and at things in 
general. Saying that he would soon 
teach Simmons what it was to disobey 
liim^ he strode off with a furious step : 
and just then, down came my Lady 
Lydia from Sir Dene’s room. Advanc- 


ing to Tom, she told him it was Sir 
Dene’s pleasure that he and the game- 
keeper should be on the watch that 
niglit in the oak-coppice. 

Tom Clanwaring verily thought she 
must be saying it for a joke. Gander 
had not lighted up ; and as he scanned 
her face by the light of the fire, he en- 
quired whether she was not mistaken. 

“Not in the least,” she decisively 
replied. “ Something has come to Sir 
Dene’s knowledge about the poachers 
having laid fresh gins and snares in the 
oak coppice ; it has put him out worse 
than anything yet. This evening, when 
all the world are supposed to be indoors, 
making merry, will be their opportunity, 
he says ; and jmu and Simmons are to 
go at once on the watch. With the best 
haste you can make, starting now, you 
and he will not get to the oak coppice 
too early. There’s not a minute to be 
lost.” 

“But Sir Dene does not wish me to 
go now ? — before dinner ? ” cried Tom, 
wondering more and more. For Sir 
Dene was a man who not only liked to 
enjoy his Christmas dinner heartily 
himself, but chose that all about him 
should enjoy it. 

“ Sir Dene wishes you and expects 
you fo go at once,” was the emphatic 
rejoinder. “ It has not come to the 
pass yet, I hope, of your disobeying 
KimP 

“ I have never disobeyed him yet. 
Lady Lydia ; or wished to do it,” was 
the young man’s answer, as he turned 
to the staircase. “ I am ready to obey 
his wishes, now and always.” 

My lady stojiped him with a peremp- 
torj^ question. “ What do you want up- 
stairs ? ” 

“ To change my coat.” 

She glanced at Tom s superfine 
clothes, that sat so well on his graceful 
figure : and mentally allowed with a 
grunt that they were not quite the 
things to go a watching in. 

“ Take care that you don’t disturb 
Sir Dene,” she crossly said. “ He is 
trying to get a little nap before dinner.” 

Tom nodded, and ran lightly up. 
But just as he was passing his grand- 
father’s door, the baronet opened it, and 
saw him. 

“ Is that you, Tom ? What’s the 
time ? ” 


140 


DENE HOLLOW. 


“It wants about twenty minutes to 
five, sir.’^ 

“ Is it so late as that? Come in and 
help me get my coat on. We shalj have 
Aide here. I begin to think s^etiraes, 
Tom,” added the old man as they crossed 
the sitting-room to his bed-chamber, 
“ that I shall be reduced to the effemi- 
nacy of taking a valet in my old age. 
My legs and arms won’t serve me much 
longer.” 

“Make a valet of me, sir. You 
might let me help you more than I do.” 

“ I don’t like to give in, Tom ; that’s 
it ; I have waited on myself all my life. 
Sit down at the fire while I wash my 
hands : you can put the water out for 
me. You are ready yourself, I see.” 

“ Heady for what, sir ? ” asked the 
young man, not quite understanding. 

“ Heady for what ! Why, for dinner.” 

“But I — I can’t dine to-day, sir,” 
said Tom impulsively. 

Sir Dene took his hands out of the 
water, and turned round to stare at Tom. 

“ Why can’t you dine ? ” 

“There’s no time, sir. I am going 
on the watch with Simmons at once.” 

“ What for ? Where to ? ” 

“ The oak coppice. As you desire.” 

“ Going on the watch with Sim- 
mons ! ” repeated the baronet, a great 
wonder on his fine old face. “ On the 
watch on a Christmas night ! No, no, 
niy boy ; nobody belonging to me does 
that. What put such a thing in your 
head ? ” 

“Lady Lydia has just told me ” 

Tom Clanwaring stopped. He was a 
true gentleman at heart : ay, and a true 
Christian, too, though some in the world, 
reading this, may laugh at it. Not even 
in this case, barefaced though he at 
once saw it was, would he take his own 
part at the expense of others. But Sir 
Dene was looking at him, and he re- 
sumed. 

“ That is, I understood Lady Lydia 
to say you wished me to go with Sim- 
mons this evening. Perhaps she misun- 
derstood.” 

“ You must have misunderstood be- 
tween you. Send my people on the 
watch on a Christmas night ! ” reiterated 
Sir Dene. “ I’m not a heathen.” 

“Lady Lydia talks of fresh gins in 
the oak coppice. What have you heard, 
sir ? ” 


“What I’ve heard will keep, Tom. 
She ought not to have begun about it 
to-day ; she knows it is a subject that 
worries me. She heard it; I didn’t. 
Jarvis picked it up somewhere out of 
doors, she says. Any Tvay, it must be 
left alone till Monday. There : let it 
drop. See if you can give mj” hair a 
brush. , I think I must have got a touch 
of rheumatism in this arm, ’’Tom ; 
painful since morning. The driving 
home from church did nm no good. 
Briar, he talks of strained muscles — but 
I fancy i.t’s rheumatism.” 

Tom had brushed the white hair and 
helped on the coat, when there came a 
smart knock at the door, and Lady 
Lydia entered. Sir Dene at once began 
about the misunderstanding, telling her 
she ought to have known better than to 
suppose he should allow any of his 
people, whether grandchildren or re- 
tainers, to go out on the cold watch on a 
Christmas night. 

Tom Clanwaring quitted the room : 
of no use now to wait to assist his 
grandfather down stairs : my lady took 
care that Tom should never assist him 
in any way, when she could help it. 
Scarcely had he gained the hall when he 
heard himself called to. My lady was 
following him ; her face white with 
anger, her restless eyes ablaze with 
pride. 

“ How dared you carry tales to Sir 
Dene ? ” she hissed — and really her 
harsh voice was often very like a hiss. 
“ You ! a dependent, a serpent — for 
that’s what you are — you presume to 
interfere and try to set aside my orders 
— and Sir Dene’s ! ” 

“ You are mistaken. Lady Lydia. I 
did not intentionally-^ ” 

“Be silent, sir; I will hear no lying 
excuses from you. As you are afraid of 
a little night cold for yourself and Sim- 
mons, you can go and share his hearth 
with him this evening. You don’t dine 
in my presence. One of us must be 
absent from table ; you or 1.” 

“ Very well. Lady Lydia. I will not 
intrude upon you.” 

He went straight out at the front 
door. Heally with no purposed inten- 
tion, but in the minute’s vexation. 
Generous - tempered though he was, 
patiently submissive as he had been 
trained to be. he could feel anger at 


SIR DENE’S REPENTANCE. 


141 


times when the oppression or injustice 
was unusually great. And Mary Arde 
would be at the table that he was thrust 
from ! 

Would she ! A few paces from the 
door he encountered a footman. Tom 
recognised him, in the evening’s dark- 
ness, for one of the servants at the Hall. 

What is it, Mark ? ” 

“My mistress has sent me up with 
this note, sir. The Squire’s quite un- 
able to come out this evening. They 
are very sorry it should have happened 
so.” 

“Are none of them coming? Not 
Mrs. or Miss Arde ? ” 

“No, sir; they intend to dine quietly 
at home,” was the ma^’s reply, as he 
went on with the note. ^ 

“ I’ll go and ask them to give me 
some dinner,” quoth Tonq to himself, his 
blue eyes brightening with an amused 
smile, his heart giving a great leap in 
its happiness. “ All happens for the 
best.” 

Whether the love that existed between 
Tom Clanwaring and May Arde — for 
it’s of no use to disguise this ill-omened 
fact any longer — would have sprung up 
had they been always on the original 
terms of intimacy, cannot be told. 
Perhaps not : the liking for each other 
might hate continued to be more 
like that of fond brother and sister. 
Not that Miss May had ever pretended 
to be fond of Tom : she had teased him 
and tortured him and tutored him at 
will, like the capricious little damsel 
^that she was. When May was growing 
up, Mrs. Arde had a serious illness, and 
the doctors ordered her abroad. She 
went with her husband and daughter, 
and they were away nearly three years. 
Three years will make great changes, 
you know, in people’s looks as well as in 
other things. Tom was three - and- 
twenty when they met again as 
strangers ; May turned nineteen : she 
saw a most attractive man, tall and 
strong and noble; he saw a sedate 
modest young lady with a shy and sweet 
face. That first interview sealed their 
fate : from that time they were as pas- 
sionately in love with each other, as ever 
man and woman can be in this world — 
and that’s saying something. Never a 
word of it had been spoken by either : 
Tom Clanwaring, remembering his posi- 


tion, was of too honorable a nature for 
that : but each knew quite well how it 
was with the other. There was about 
as mu5h chance that Tom, poor and 
prospectless, would be allowed to win 
her, as there was that he might win the 
moon. Each was contented to leave 
the future to itself : as long as they met 
daily, or almost daily, the present had 
bliss enough. 

And so, this last year, since May’s re- 
turn, things had gone on quietly and 
happily. That they would not continue 
so to go on much longer, certain signs 
were telling. Matters seemed to be ap- 
proaching a crisis in more ways than 
one. Captain Jarvis Clanwaring was 
getting into deep water — was in it, in- 
deed — and there appeared to be no way 
of extricating him but by some grand 
coup-de-maiu ; such as espousing a 
wealthy heiress. The heiress was at 
hand, and a very charming and loveable 
heiress too ; and Captain Clanwaring 
made no end of visits to Beechhurst 
Dene on her account. But there was 
one curious fact — he did not seem to 
make much way with her. To Lady 
Lydia this had been utterly unaccounta- 
ble until quite recently — when the hor- 
rible fear had suddenly suggested itself 
that May loved the scapegoat — the 
name he had gone by amidst them for 
years — the miserable, despised, depen- 
dent, Tom Clanwaring. Somehow Mrs. 
Arde was catching up the same fear: 
possibly it had been craftily awakened 
by Lady Lydia, for we rarely see these 
things for ourselves. Mrs. Arde was 
not at all sure about it. She thought it 
next door to impossible that Mary could 
be so much of an idiot. 

Tom, laughing outright at the turn 
affairs had taken that evening, walked 
on to the Hall. He knew quite well, if 
nobody else did, that my lady’s motive 
for banishing him from the dinner table 
was because Miss Arde was to be at it. 
But, for once in a rare way, Tom had 
won and my lady lost. Tom knew that 
the persecution, renewed of late, the 
under current of effort that was at 
work again to drive him entirely from 
Beechhurst Dene, arose from ray lady’s 
fear that he was standing in the way of 
Jarvis. He could afford to laugh, he 
thought : whatever the result might be 
as to himself, he felt assured that May 


142 


DENE HOLLOW. 


would never have anything on that 
head to say to Jarvis Clan waring. 

When Mr. Arde had found in the af- 
ternoon that he grew no better, a din- 
ner was hastily prepared at home : his 
wdfe and daughter declining to leave 
him. He had these bilious attacks 
often, and would look as sallow as a 
guinea while they lasted, which was 
sometimes three days. Mrs., Arde 
wrote the note to Beechhurst Dene, 
and sent to ask the Miss Dickereens 
to come in and dine at the Hall : two 
middle - aged neighbors, cheerful and 
talkative ; who were made all the more 
of because they had lost the greater 
part of their fortune. The party was 
in the act of sitting down to this din- 
ner, Mr. Arde included, w^hen Tom 
walked in. Every one looked surprised 
to see him : May blushed scarlet. 

“ Will you give me some dinner, sir ? 

“ If you want iV’ returned the 
Squire. “ And welcome. Any thing 
the matter at the Dene ? ” 

“ I have offended Lady Lydia — no 
unusual thing, you know, sir — and she 
forbids me to sit down with them. I 
thought — as it was Christmas day — 
perhaps you and Mrs. Arde would take 
me in.” 

He spoke in a half jesting, half seri- 
ous tone. The servant put a chair for 
him next May ; the Miss Dickereens 
sitting opposite in the warmth of the 
fire. The squire’s spirits went up : 
Tom’s good-looking face and kindly 
nature seemed to impart a new element 
of cheerfulness to them all. George 
Arde had always liked him from the 
time he held the little unconscious in- 
fant in his arms by the bed where its 
mother was lying cold and dead, and 
poor Geoffry sat in a chair against the 
wall sobbing. The squire, who had 
only come into the dining-room to carve, 
protesting he could not touch a bit, ven- 
tured on a morsel of turkey. It tasted 
so good that he took a larger piece, and 
then another, and another. His aching 
head seemed to grow better as if by 
magic, and he soon felt as well as ever 
he had in his life. These impromptu 
meetings are often more gay than pre- 
meditated ones. Have you ever observ- 
ed this ? It was the case here. You 
remember the remark of the good old 
Vicar of Wakefield in reference to their 


last-recorded merry meet:in-g : “ I don’t 
know whether we had more wit amongst 
us than usual, but we had certainly 
more laughter.” The laughter at the 
squire’s table that night might have 
been heard half way to Hurst Leet. 
Every countenance was happy, every 
heart at rest : even Mrs. Arde forgot 
her semi -doubts, and yielded to the 
genial and happy influence of the mo- 
ment. It was one of the merriest 
Christmases spent that daj^ within the 
three kingdojns : an evening to be re- 
called with a thrill : an hour that would 
stand in the memory as one of unal- 
loyed pleasure, amid the stern realities, 
the dull cares of later years. 

What was the matter at home this 
time ? ” ask/id Mary of Tom confiden- 
tially, when they had a moment to them- 
selves, at the end of the drawing-room. 

“ Did my lady really forbid your sitting 
down to table ? ” 

She said that either she or I must 
be away from it. Of course it left me 
no choice, May.” 

But why ? ” 

“Well, the ostensible reason was that 
I had carried tales to my grandfather — 
which of course I had not. The real 
reason was, that she did not want me to 
be at dinner.” 

“ But why ?” again questioned May. 

“ Well, she — she had her own reasons, 
I conclude,” was Tom’s not very satis- 
factory answer, a smile playing about 
his mouth. 

Did Mary guess at the reason ? 
Faintly perhaps. Her face wore a hot 
blush. 

“ Tom,” she softly said, glancing up 
through the shade of the long brown 
eye-lashes, “ I can’t bear Lady Lydia.” 

“ Now, Maj^, that’s what I call ingra- 
titude,” was his laughing answer. “ She 
says she adores you.” 

“ Does she ! But, Tom, if I were 
you I’d not really quarrel with her. 
She might send you away. I know 
she’s trying for it.” 

“ I know it myself. Sometimes I 
think she’ll do it.” 

“ Would you like to go ? ” 

“ Well — no. I’d rather stay where 1 
am. On account of my good old grand- 
father.” 

Had it been to save his life he could 
not have helped the expression that mo- 


SIR DENE’S REPENTANCE. 


143 


mentarily escaped his blue eyes, meeting 
hers. It quite plainly said that there 
was some one else he would like to stay 
for. Mary’s heart fluttered fifty ways in 
its sense of happiness. 

‘‘ What are you thinking of, child ? ” 
asked Mr. Arde of his daughter, when 
their guests had departed, and he was 
lighting his bed candles. 

For Mary seemed buried in a profound 
reverie. She woke out of it with a start 
at the question. 

“ Papa, I was thinking how very 
happy we have been to-night. I was 
wondering if anything could ever look 
cloudy again.” 

Meanwhile the dinner and evening 
had progressed at Beechhurst Dene. 
Not so merrily. Sir Dene was out of 
sorts : the children were troublesome, al- 
lowed to take up nearly all the attention 
— a very mistaken and unpleasant thing 
at all times to everybody except them- 
selves and their unwise mother. The 
friends Captain Clanwaring had said 
might drop in, did so : two of them, get- 
ting over from Worcester in a gig. 
Both were, as Jones, helping Gander to 
wait at table, expressed it, milling- 
tary.” The one. Major Fife, was at least 
fifty years of age : and there was some- 
thing about his height and uprightness, 
in his clearly-cut features, ay, and more 
than all in the long, flowing silver beard 
he wore, that put Sir Dene strongly in 
mind of Robert Owen, dead nearly five- 
and-twenty years before. Gander was 
so struck with the likeness as to be ex- 
cessively discomposed, for it brought to 
the man’s remembrance that long-past 
night of his great terror in Harebell 
Lane. The resemblance was certainly 
remarkable ; but the expressioq of the 
two faces wholly different : for while 
Robert Owen’s had been good and win- 
ning, Major Fife’s was that of a rout^ ; 
bad altogether. Sir Dene had heard of 
him as a hard drinker and hard player : 
in short as bearing not too reputable a 
character in any waj^, especiallj’’ since he 
quitted the army. The other. Lieuten- 
ant Paget, seemed an inoffensive and 
rather simple young man. But Sir 
Dene was not pleased that Jarvis should 
have taken upon himself to introduce 
these men to his table that evening ; he 
did not care that entire strangers should 
join the family dinner on Christmas 


Day. The baronet was of course civilly 
courteous to them, as in duty bound to 
be ; but his manner had no cordiality in 
it, and he was very silent. That, or the 
absence of the Ardes, or something else, 
undoubtedly threw a gloom on the meet- 
ing. They were half through dinner 
before Sir Dene noticed the absence of 
his favorite grandson. Ay, and in his 
heart he was the favorite, little as my 
lady or any one else might suspect it. 

“ Where’s Tom ? ” he exclaimed. 

No one answered. He repeated the 
question loudly and sharply. .Lady 
Lydia could no longer affect not to hear. 

“ Oh, Tom ? — He has gone over to 
Simmons’s, I believe,” she carelessly 
said. 

Sir Dene laid down his knife and fork. 
“ To Simmons’s ! ” he repeated, every 
feature of his still fine countenance hard- 
ening to stern expression. “ What has 
taken him there on Christmas night?” 

His low tastes, I conclude,” was her 
hardy reply. “ He has that kind of 
taste for such company, you know. Sir 
Dene.” 

^‘If he has, my lady, it is thanks to 
you, for it was you who first drove him 
out to frequent it,” was Sir Dene’s re- 
tort. But nevertheless he felt bitterly 
vexed at Tom, for absenting himself 
from dinner on Christmas Day. 

Nothing more was said then. In the 
drawing-room Lady Lydia took occasion 
to speak a few words in Sir Dene’s, ear. 
She intimated that it was Tom who had 
w’anted to go and watch in the oak cop- 
pice ; that he was disappointed at not 
spending the hours with Simmons, whose 
company he preferred, and so had. gone 
off to do it at his home. Sir Dene, 
angry and vexed, went to bed in the be- 
lief. He was not feeling well that eve- 
ning, and disappeared even before the 
children. 

A slight incident occurred to Tom 
Clanwaring as he came home, which may . 
as well be mentioned. Hurst Leet clock 
was striking eleven when he turned in at 
the Dene gates ; the air was clear though 
not cold enough for what is called season- 
able Christmas weather, and the sound 
of the strokes came up distinctly to Tom’s 
ear. Rather to bis surprise, as he neared 
the house, he saw a gig standing before 
the front door. ’ One of their own grooms 
was in it, apparently asleep. 


144 


DENE HOLLOW. 


What’s this gig here for, James ? ” 
he asked of the man. 

‘‘ It belongs to two gents as come over 
from Ooster* to dinner, sir,” replied the 
groom waking up. Friends o’ the 
captain’s. Gander says. And don’t I 
wish they’d come out,” he added partly 
to himself. Stuck in this gig for an 
hour or two’s spell, bain’t the work for a 
Christmas night.” 

When all the rest are making them- 
selves comfortable,” said Tom with good- 
humor. 

“ That’s it, sir,” returned the groom, 
intensely aggravated. “ There they be, 
a roomful of ’em, men and maids a 
drinking hot punch round the fire ; and 
Gander a-telling of ’em stories about 
Injee.” 

The picture of comfort was so vivid 
that Tom would not disturb it. In- 
tensely considerate of others, both by 
nature and because he had been trained 
to be, was Tom Clanwaring. Instead 
of ringing a peal on the hall bell, that 
must have brought forth Gander or one 
of the others, he turned to go round to 
the back door, which was never fastened 
until the last thing. He was just 
emerging from the privet- walk, the 
door in view, when a tall young person, 
showing a profusion of light curls under 
her bonnet, came in his way. It was 
Miss Emma Geach, — whom we have not 
met since she was a child. 

“ Why Emma ! ” exclaimed Tom. 

Is it you ? Do you want anything ? ” 

Hush, please ! ” she said, sinking 
her voice to a whisper. “I was only 
waiting to — to speak to one o’ the ser- 
vants, Mr. Tom.” 

Which of them is it?” he asired, 
insensibly dropping his voice to assimi- 
late with her tones. Shall I call ” 

“No, I don’t want you to call no- 
body,” she quickly interrupted, as if the 
proposition startled her. “ Go on your 
way and take no notice on me please, 
Mr. Tom. If he comes out, I shall see 
him : if he don’t I shall just run back 
home wi’out it.” 

The sound of the whispering penetra- 
ted to the grove of trees (bare now) at a 
few paces distance : and Dene Clanwar- 
ing and his cousin Otto, strolling about 
to smoke, looked out to see who might 
be thus covertly talking. Emma Geach 

* Worcestershire patois for Worcester. 


drew back behind the privet hedge to 
hide herself : Tom went on to the draw- 
ing-room. 

Jarvis, his two friends, and Lady 
Lydia were .at whist when Tom entered, 
looking — they could but notice it — 
rather particularly radiant. 

“ Flope you have enjoyed your evening 
with Simmons ! ” sarcastically spoke 
Mrs. Letsom. Like Sir Dene, she had 
thought it very bad taste, even of Tom, 
to abandon the home party. 

“ With Simmons ! ” cried Tom in 
surprise. “ I have not been with 
Simmons, Mrs. Letsom.” 

“No! Well, I thought it curious 
that you should go there on a Christ- 
mas night,” she rejoined. “ Where 
have you been, then, Tom ? ” 

“ Dining at the Hall.” 
d^Where ? What?” sharply asked 
Lady Lydia, in a kind of shrill scream. 

“ I have been dining with the Ardes, 
Lady Lydia. A right merry evening 
we’ve had. The Miss Dickereens were 
there.” ' 

Grave as a judge was his face as he 
told it : never a ghost of a smile did it 
wear, to betray that he knew what the 
announcement must be to her. She 
made no answer j only bit her quiver- 
ing lips. The captain threw down his 
cards, as if something stung him, and 
his eyes wore an evil look as he turned 
them full on Tom Clanwaring. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

SENT TO THE TRAILING INDIAN. 

Monday morning. The "v^eek seem- 
ed to be inaugurating itself rather 
gloomily for some of the inmates of 
Beechhurst Dene. At least, if the 
countenances of my Lady Lydia .and 
Captain Clanwaring might be any 
criterion. Gloomy enough was the 
aspect of each, in all conscience j cross 
too. My lady was sitting a little back 
from the library window, in the shade 
of the delicate green brocade curtain. 
The room was as charming as it used to 
be: renovated from time to time, the 
prevailing features and colors of its 
furniture were always retained. 

Gazing on outer things as one who 
sees them not, was Captain Clanwaring. 


SENT TO THE TRAILING INDIAN. 


145 


A suspicion of frost lay on the grass of 
the park, the trees looked bare and 
bleak. He had been telling Lady Ly- 
dia once again that he 'must have 
money, and immediately; and she had 
returned him the same answer as on 
Christmas Day — that she did not see 
bow it would be possible. In truth he 
had more need of it than even his 
mother knew — for he did not tell her 
of various little items that were press- 
ing him amidst greater ones. They 
were passing through his own mind as 
he stood. Major Fife’s visit on Christ- 
mas Day, independent of partaking of 
a good Christmas dinner, was to press 
Jarvis for a certain debt of honor, lost 
to him in London. The major had 
made the journey from London to 
Worcester to get it:, and was staying 
there at a great cost at the Hoppole. 
Jarvis was owing some money up at 
Black’s at the Trailing Indian, and that 
was pressing. Miss Emma. Geach’s 
appearance in the privet-walk on Christ- 
mas night was, in point of fact, owing 
to this : she was waiting in the hope 
of seeing Captain Clanwaring — in spite 
of her plausible excuse to Tom. About 
these two items of debt he said nothing 
to my lady : but rather enlarged on 
certain claims he owed in town, and the 
terrible embarrassment they brought 
him. Which was only too true. 

Jarvis Clanwaring was one of those 
men who cannot, or will not, keep out 
of debt. His tastes and pursuits were 
of a nature that must inevitably bring 
debt in their train to a poor man — ay, 
and to a rich one. As to curbing his 
inclinations — his expensive horses, his 
fine clothes, his dinners, his betting, his 
gambling — such a course never entered 
his mind. Where was the good of hav- 
ing a baronet for a grandfather, who 
must possess pots of money laid by, un- 
less he was of use to you, the Captain 
was in the habit of arguing with his 
friends. There was only he who wanted 
help. Young Dene and Charley had 
money enough of their own. Otto 
made what he earned at his profession 
do for him, did not spend a fraction 
more, and troubled nobody. Jarvis’s 
private opinion was, that Otto must 
live upon live shillings a day. Perhaps 
he did. Close, prudent, hard-working, 
Otto Clanwaring was the one to make 
9 


both ends meet, however small the 
means might be. Jarvis had once got 
twenty pounds out of him. Driving 
down to Old Squire one day in a friend’s 
curricle, Jarvis had told a tale of some 
temporary need for twenty pounds ; and 
Otto let him have the sum, relying on 
his promise of honor to bring it back on 
that day week. “ Sly dog, that Otto ; 
he’s putting by already,” was Jarvis’s 
comment — and he had never repaid the 
money from that day to this. Otto had 
left off asking him for it. Jarvis had 
had money from young Dene more than 
once : “ bled him,” he called it. Dene 
had grown wary now, and refused to 
lend another stiver : he was not yet of 
age, and only had his allowance. In 
short all sources seemed closed to J arvis, 
except Sir Dene’s. Sir Dene had help- 
ed him so much in response to open ap- 
plications, that he would lend no more. 
In point of fact, he had helped him far 
more than he bad any suspicion of, 
through the contrivance of Lady 
Lydia. That lady would get money 
from Sir Dene — ostensibly for herself, 
for Otto, for Louisa Letsom. It was 
always for one or the other, as she told 
Sir Dene : whereas, in point of fact, 
every coin went into the yawning 
pocket of Jarvis. There seemed to be 
no end to it. Sir Dene had recently told 
her — and added that he strongl}’- sus- 
pected she must be assisting her elder 
son in secret. So my lady might well 
assure the captain that for the present 
she was unable to do more. It was not 
at all a bright state of affairs, and each 
one tacitly acknowledged it to the 
other, on that wintry morning. 

“ [Jarvis, it is as I have told you,” 
spoke Lady Lydia. ‘‘ You must make 
play with Mary Arde.” 

“ And don’t I do it — and mean to do 
it ? ” fractiously retorted Jarvis : who 
was just as undutiful to his mother in 
manner and speech, as it is the pleasure 
of some of these idolized ’and indulged 
sons to be. “ I shall go in for her now 
in earnest.” 

Of the twenty thousand pounds 
that will be hers on her wedding-day, 
ten of it will be settled on her ; ten will 
go to her husband, if he be a man they 
like — Mrs. Arde told me so much. 
Some of that loosQ ten thousand will 
set you straight.” ^ 


146 


DENE HOLLOW. 


Set him straight ! Ay. J arvis Clan- 
waring drew a deep breath and his face 
took a bright look as he thought of it. 
The mines of Golconda could hardly 
have seemed to him fairer and richer. 

Twenty thousand pounds on her 
wedding-day, and a large provision for 
life besides, continued Lady Lydia. 
“ Of course Mary will come in for the 
Hall as well, and for the whole of her 
father’s fortune. A prize worth striving 
for, Jarvis.” 

Yes. Jarvis felt it to his heart’s core. 
And he liked Mary for herself besides. 
A prize worth any strife, any sacrifice. 

‘‘ I shall not let her slip, you may rest 
assured,” he said aloud. “ But, don’t 
you see that 1 must contrive to go on 
smoothly until that time comes? Were 
my embarrassments to leak out, old 
Arde might fight shy of me.” 

She did see it. Looking up at J arvis, 
she told him she saw it. 

“ Well then — for that reason, if for 
no other, I must have money.” 

“ It is all very well to say ^ must,’ 
Jarvis. But how ? ” 

He turned from the window in some 
agitation, lifting his hands to give em- 
phasis to his words. 

Mother ! As surely as that you and 
I are talking here together, — as surely 
as that we shall eat our dinner to-day — 
as surely as that we shall sometime die^ 
what I say is truth : If I do not get 
money between now and this day week, 
some inconvenient things will come out 
to the world. I cannot put it more 
forcibly.” 

“ What things ? ” 

“ What things ! Why, obligations 
that I owe. Liabilities. Debts.” 

“ You have been frightfully impru- 
dent, Jarvis.” 

‘‘A man of the world is obliged to 
be,” carelessly remarked the captain. 

But a steady-going dromedary like old 
Arde miglit not allow for that. I think 
he’d not. Once let him get an inkling 
of the state of my exchequer, and I 
fancy he would cut up rough.” 

“ He and Mrs. Arde both like you, 
Jarvis. She especially does.” 

“ And to retain their liking, I must 
keep my name clear. Don’t you see 
it?” 

Oh yes again, she did see it j she saw 
it in all its truth and force. Sitting 


on in silence, she bit her compressed 
lips. 

There’s no excuse I can invent that 
would weigh with Sir Dene, Jarvis. 
It is not a fortnight since I had money 
from him ostensibly for myself: and I 
cannot saj^ it is for Louisa or Otto while 
they are both here. There’s no other 
way. He has taken to settle the house- 
keeping bills himself — through Gander.” 

Gander be smothered ! ” said the 
captain gloomily, straying a little beside 
the mark. “ You wiH have to say it is 
for me.” 

“ It would not avail,” she quickly an- 
swered. “ At least — I don’t think it 
would. He told me to my face that he 
believed the last money was for you and 
it was high time your extravagance was 
checked. Jarvis, I think this — if you 
don’t mind, he will be warning Squire 
Arde himself.” 

“No!” uttered Jarvis, aghast at the 
suggestion. 

“ Well, I fear he might. It is just 
an idea of mine. I must have time to 
think this over, Jarvis.” 

Captain Clanwaring, stretching him- 
self, strolled away, leaving her to do it. 
Half way ^oss the room he turned to 
say something. 

“ There’s the second trouble — that 
cursed scapegoat. He must be got away 
somehow or other. Dining at the Hall 
on Christmas Day ; drinking tea there 
yesterday — it won’t do, you know. He 
and May were coolly pacing the beech 
avenue together for an hour in the after- 
noon. The idea of there being any- 
thing between them is preposterous ; too 
contemptible to speak of : he would never 
dare to lift his eyes to her, nor would 
she stoop to him : nevertheless, he will 
be better out of the way than in it.’^ 
Jarvis reasoned exactly as my lady 
reasoned, you see : their instincts were 
the same. 

“ Leave that to me,” was the careless 
and yet assured answer of Lady Lydia. 
“I’ve got it in. hand.” 

And well in hand too. 

Jarvis, cramming his pipe with tobac- 
co, lighted it, kept it in his mouth un- 
held, by some habit of dexterity, and 
strolled out at the side door, his hands in 
his pockets. A more miserable mood 
than his, could not well be. It was ab- 
solutely necessary that he should have 


biix^T^ n. ^ the trailing INDIAN? 


147 


money, to avoi(Ii— well, he hardly knew 
what. Exposure, for one thing. If my 
lady failed in getting this money for 
him, he would be reduced to the neces- 
eity of selling his commission. 

Brooding over these troubles, he had 
got as far as the gate opening to Hare- 
bell Lane, and was leaning his arms 
upon it, puflSng away, when Tom Clan- 
waring came up the lane with a quick 
step. The contrast presented by the 
two was remarkable: Jarvis, an idle, 
lounging, smoking, pale, dissipated dan- 
dy : Tom, fresh, active, upright, striding 
along in his worn velveteen coat and 
splashed top-boots, as if he had all the 
work of the parish upon him, his fair 
Saxon face J)right and beautiful to look 
upon. The one was a worker, the other 
something worse than a dreamer. 

“ I’m not sure but we shall have snow, 
J arvis,” spoke Tom cordially as he went 
by. 

Snow — ah ! ’^ responded Jarvis in- 
differently. “ Do you happen to be go- 
ing past the Trailing Indian ? ” 

“ No. Why ? continued Tom, halt- 
ing. 

I want a note left there. For 
Black.” 

A note — for Black ! ” echoed Tom, 
in surprise: wondering what Randy 
Black and the fastidious captain could 
have in common. 

‘‘About tobacco,” Jarvis condescend- 
ed curtly to explain. “ Can you take it 
for me ? ” 

“Yes if you like; it won’t be much 
out of my way,” responded Tom with 
liis usual cheerful good nature. Jarvis 
handed him the note from his pocket, 
and Tom went on. 

Sir Dene had kept his bed all day on 
the Sunday, with the rheumatism in his 
shoulder, and Mr. Priar came up to see 
him. Tom went in twice, and was re- 
ceived coldly : Sir Dene, who had not 
been -enlightened as to the truth, re- 
tained his anger at Tom’s having gone 
(as he thought) to Simmons’s instead of 
staying at home to dine. He was too 
angrj to reproach him : for one thing, 
his shoulder was in great pain : and my 
lady had been flinging in a little edged 
shaft or two against Tom. 

To-day, Monday, Tom was very busy 
out of doors. His post as overlooker 
was the great barrier Lady Lydia had 


to contend with in her newly taken-up 
resolution to drive him off the estate. 
Remembering the instinct that had 
hazily warned her against his thus re- 
maining, she thought how true it had 
been. The arrangement had worked 
well hitherto, separating in a wide de- 
gree the poor scapegoat from his kith 
and kin : and but for this awakened fear 
in connection with Squire Arde’s daugh- 
ter, Tom Clanwaring might have stayed 
as he was, unmolested/ till Doomsday.” 

“ Don’t make' quite so much noise, Em- 
ma. Please don’t, there’s a good girl ! ” 

“If thee kicks up tliat there clatter, 
Pll shy this blessed brush at th’ yead. 
D’ye hear, wench ? ” 

The pleading appeal came from Mrs. 
Black ; the rough one from her husband, 
who caught up a short hearth-brush that 
happened to lie inside the fender, as he 
spoke. They were sitting on either side 
the kitchen fire, objects to look upon. 
Poor Mrs. Black, a helpless cripple now, 
— indeed, the extraordinary wonder was 
that she had lived so long, — looked a 
shadow, not a woman ; her small, meek 
face, with its perpetual glance of terror, 
was weary, shrunken, piteous. In point 
of condition. Black did not look much 
better than his wife : he was worn almost 
to a shadow too ; though he had not 
been fat at the best of times. His coun- 
tenance had acquired an anxious, uneasy 
expression, and his eyes a restlessness as 
if he were always waiting for some un- 
pleasant surprise. People accounted for 
it curiously : they said Black lived in 
perpetual fear of seeing Robert Owen 
that the fear of it tormented him. Just 
now Black was really ill : a week ago 
he had taken a violent inflammation on 
his chest, necessitating Mr. Priar’s at- 
tendance, and was in some danger. The 
danger had passed ; he could sit up ; 
but he was more ill-spoken and irritable 
than when in his usual health. And 
that need not have been ! 

The reputation of the Trailing Indian 
and of its landlord, had not materially 
improved with the course of years. The 
mysterious trade in smuggled and stolen 
goods, midnight hearses, and the like, 
had dwindled away ; but there was more 
of poaching carried on than ever. Some- 
what perhaps of smuggling still; for 
nowhere could there be found such 


148 


DENE HOLLOW. 


brandy and tobacco as Black’s. The 
who had helped in the other work 
had died off one by one ; Michael Geach, 
the last of them, some five or six years 
ago. As to Mrs. Geacb, she disap- 
peared entirely from English society at 
a remote period, and was supposed to 
be in Australia. And Miss Emma had 
remained, a permanent legacy, at the 
Trailing Indian ; Mrs. Black kind to 
her, Black generally swearing at her. 

Emma Geach had grown up just what 
she promised to do : a tall, fine, very 
good-looking girl, as impudent as she 
W'as high. Her fair face and profusion 
of light hair, which w'as really beautiful, 
gained for her much out-spoken admira- 
tion from the frequenters of the Trailing 
Indian, w’hich was sometimes conveyed 
in broad language. Emma Geach took 
the admiration as her natural due, and 
for the rest, she responded in kind. 
Never backward wms she at retort; no 
matter what its nature, she was equal 
to it. A bold girl, undoubtedly, by in- 
stinct as well as from circumstances, and 
the neighborhood did not speak too w’ell 
of her. Not that any absolute charge 
l;ad been brought against her until quite 
recently, when gossip had begun to say 
that there w^as palpable cause for scan- 
dal, and respectability picked up its 
skirts against contact with hers in the 
road. A laughing, bustling, capable 
young woman as to household matters, 
was she, quite the right hand of the 
Trailing Indian, and getting through 
more work in an hour than poor Mrs. 
Black had ever accomplished in a day. 

But she was always noisy with it. 
This morning — washing up the Sunday’s 
plates and dishes — which she had chosen 
to leave over till the Monday — she made 
clatter enough for ten : one might have 
supposed the crockery- ware was being 
broken continually. Standing at the 
sink at the end of the kitchen, a small 
tub of hot water and bucket of cold 
before her, she rubbed the grease off 
the plates with a dish cloth in the hot 
water, plunged them for a moment into 
the cold, and put them, wet, in the 
rack above. 

“ I shall ha’ done soon,” was all the 
notice she took of the remonstrances 
given her: and went on with as little 
regard to peace as ever. Her cotton 
gown was pinned up round her under the 


coarse apron, her arms were bare, her 
shoes were down at heel in a slatternly 
fashion ; but her very light eyes glis- 
tened with almost unnatural brightness, 
and her hair, as just said, was profuse 
and beautiful. Miss Emma was proud 
of it : and if she did not always keep 
her shoes in tidiness, she kept that so. 

“ Have Briar sent up that dratted 
physic ? ” demanded Black, after a fit 
of coughing. 

‘‘ Not as I’ve seen,” replied Emma. 

• “ Then you’ll go off down and fetch 
it.” 

As soon as I’ve got these here 
things i’ the rack,” said Emma with 
ready acquiescence — for she liked going 
out better than any recreation in the 
world. 

At this moment in came Tom Clan- 
waring, bringing the note to Black. 
Tom was, so to say, quite at home with 
the inmates of the Trailing Indian : he 
would often run in to say a kind word 
to poor, miserable, suffering Mrs. Black, 
or have a chat with Emma. The ac- 
quaintanceship, begun in the old days 
over the whistle, had nev.er ceased. 
Tom the child, taught to look upon 
himself as an irredeemable vagabond 
by my lady and her children, saw not 
so much difference between himself and 
the other vagabond, Emma Geach. He 
of course learnt better later, but he was 
by far too good hearted to entirely 
“ cut ” Miss Emma. Tom liked the 
girl very w^ell, and on occasion had 
done her many a good turn in shield- 
ing her from Black’s furious passions. 
Emma liked him too; wdiat’s more, 
she respected him — and that’s saying 
a vast deal for impudent Emma Geach. 
Black on his side, from some cause or 
other, had been always tolerably civil 
to Tom, and was rarely surly with him 
as he would be to other people. 

“Don’t break the plates, Emma,” 
said Tom in his open, off-hand manner, 
as he w^ent into the midst of the noise. 

“ Thank you for telling of me, sir,” 
returned she — her answer always ready. 

Tom laughed. “I’ve brought you a 
note. Black,” he said. “Captain Clan- 
waring asked me if I’d leave it with 
you.” 

Black’s hungry fingers grasped the 
note as if it were something good to eat : 
1 and Emma Geach glanced at him side- 


SENT TO THE TRAILING INDIAN. 


149 


ways, a sharp, enquiring look in her 
light eyes. Tom sat down on the 
table to. speak to Mrs. Black. 

“Wait till he comes down from Lun- 
non again ! — not if I knows it,” broke 
forth Black when he had torn open the 
note and read the few lines it contained. 
“ It’s the money I wants, and the money 
as ni have. Promises ’on’t do : folks 
knows what his be, and I knows it. 
Mr. Tom Clan waring, you ” 

“ Does Captain Clanwaring owe you 
anything for tobacco ? ” interrupted 
Tom, wondering at the man’s excite- 
ment. 

“Well — yes, he do owe it me; it is 
for ’bacca,” rejoined Black, after a 
pause, and a hard stare full in Tom’s 
face. “ He comes in here when he’s 
down at the Dene, a saying he can’t 
get ’baccy like mine nowhere not all 
over Lunnun, and runs up a heavy bill 
for ’t — and ’stead o’ handing o’er the 
money, sends me excuses and these here 
notes.” 

“ I thought the note had been to or- 
der some,” returned Tom. “ He said 
something.^ about getting no tobacco 
like yours, when he gave it me.” 

“ The note is to say as he can’t pay 
me the money he promised to bring up 
here o’ Christmas Eve,” said Black 
deliberately and savagely. “ You tell 
him, Mr. Tom Clanwaring, as I 
says ” 

“I cannot carry back any message 
concerning it,” interrupted Tom, not 
choosing to interfere in Jarvis’s debts. 
“ Captain Clanwaring saw me coming 
up this way, and asked if I’d leave the 
note : but you must send your answer 
to him yourself. Black.” 

Black growled some indistinct words 
under his breath — a wheezy .and short 
breath to-day. “ When’s the captain 
a going back to Lunnun?” he asked 
aloud. 

“ Not yet, I fancy. In two or three 
weeks, perhaps.” 

“ And in two or three days I hope to 
be on my out-’o-door legs again, and 
I’ll be on to him. Captain Clanwaring 
haint a going to play with Randy 
Black. He needn’t think for to ” 

Black’s menace was cut short by the 
entrance of some customers, demanding 
ale. A shooting party, sporting in the 
neighborhood, who had become thirsty 


over their work. They came trooping 
into the kitchen with their guns : Otto 
Clanwaring and his cousin Dene the 
foremost of them, Simmons the hind- 
most. Tom laughed, jumped off the 
table, exchanged a few words with his 
relatives, and then went off on his 
morning’s business. 

“Be thee a going for that there phy- 
sic, or bain’t thee ? ” savagely demand- 
ed Black of the girl, as his customers 
disappeared : for their entrance and 
exit had brought in a rush of cold air, 
and set him coughing frightfully. 

“ I be a going now,” she .answered, 
swilling the last dish in the cold water, 
and pushing it, splashing, into the rack. 

“ Thee’ll put away the muck first,” _ 
roared Black. 

The “ muck ” meant the tub and the 
pail and the dirty water. Black need 
not have reminded her. With all her 
failings, she was a tidy housewife. 

In a coarse red shawl — or, as it was 
called then, “ whittle,” and a smart 
bonnet, and shoes up at heel, Emma 
Geach started. It was she who did all 
the errands, for there was no ostler kept 
at the place since the death of the one 
who had been there so long — Joe. If 
by chance a stray horseman rode up to 
the inn. Black himself attended to the 
steed. Miss Emma was not accustomed 
to hurry herself when on these errands : 
and Black was often well-nigh inclined 
to strike her for the delay. It made 
not the smallest difference — if she -felt 
inclined to stay out, she did stay out. 

Hastening down Harebell Lane at 
full speed, she came to a sudden stop 
at Beechhurst Dene gate. Captain 
Clanwaring was leaning over .it still. 
Reviewing gloomily his difficulties, 
financial and otherwise, he had never 
moved from the place. 

“Where are you off to?” asked he, 
taking the pipe from his mouth. 

“ He have sent me down to old Priar's 
for his physic,” replied the girl, her nat- 
urally free tone having- become almost 
' shrinkingly timid. 

Jarvis looked at her. The light eyes, 
generally glittering with a peculiar kind 
of hard brightness, had taken a soft, 
pleading look ; the cheeks were rosy 
with a delicate flush. Never had Emma 
I Geach looked prettier than at this mo- 
1 ment. 


150 


DENE HOLLOW. 


“ He is in a daze o’ rage,” said the 
girl. The night afore last, nothing ’ud 
do but I must go up to bis bed-room — 
he’d heard me come in, and shrieked out 
for me like mad. When I stood it out 
that I’d not got to see you cause o’ visit- 
ors at the Dene, and so couldn’t deliver 
his message about the money, he roared 
out at me ’twas a lie.” 

“ I’ve sent him up a note,” said J ar- 
vis. 

“ It haven’t done no good,” said the 
girl. “ He swears he’ll have the money 
whether you’ve got it, or no. He said 
it out before Tom Clanwaring.” 

Jarvis, who had begun to puff at his 
pipe lest it should go out, glanced up 
with a start. “ Before Tom Clanwar- 
ing ! Black’s a fool.” 

“ No harm,” returned the girl. 
Were it money owing for bacca, says 
Mr. Tom, a thinking, he says, as the 
letter were only to order some. Yes it 
were money owed for bacca, says Black, 
after he had stared a bit in t’other’s 
face. Tom Clanwaring took it in. 
Good bye,” added Miss Emma suddenly, 
as the voice of the tenant of Harebell 
Farm, Philip Tillett, was heard on the 
iother side his hedge, talking with one 
of his laborers : “ good bye t’ye.” And 
she went on at a fleet pace. 

Jarvis Clanwaring sauntered indoors, 
finishing his pipe. Lady Lydia, writ- 
ing a letter in the library when he got 
in, enquired whether he had been to 
Arde Hall. 

“No,” returned Jarvis, in his most 
sullen manner. 

“ But I thought you were going there 
this morning, Jarvis.” 

“Time enough.” 

“ Look here, Jarvis : you must make 
good play with Mary Arde if you are to 
win her,” returned Lady Lydia in as 
urgently serious a tone as woman can 
well use. “ Don’t waste the time — don’t 
waste the shadow of a chance. Go you 
down at once, and call there.” 

It was not bad advice. Captaip Clan- 
waring brushed himself up a little, so 
as to look more of a fascinating dandy 
than before, and started. 

Alas for human hopes ! for human 
contrarieties ! Miss Mary Arde descried 
the approaching visitor from a window, 
and made a precipitate retreat to her 
own room. Mr. and Mrs. Arde were 


out, and her maid came up to summons 
her. It was Susan Cole still. But Su- 
san grown into a middle-aged woman. 

“ Captain Clanwaring, Miss May.” 

“ I can’t go down to him, Susan,” 
said Miss May, coloring violently, “I 
won’t go.” 

“ But I told him you be at home,” re- 
monstrated Susan. “ He’s a waiting for 
you i’ the drawing-room. You must go, 
Miss May.” 

“ I tell you I won’t go,” persisted the 
young lady, fond of taking her own way 
as she had been when a child. “ I 
worUt. There. Let him come again 
when mamma’s at home.” 

Susan stood in a dilemma : she liked 
her own way also. “ What excuse be I 
to make for ye. Miss May. After saying 
as you was at home ! ” 

“ Oh, say anything,” carelessly re- 
turned May. 

“ It’s uncommon bad behavior,” de- 
bated Susan, standing her ground. “ I 
can’t go and tell him as you wonH come 
down.” 

“ Say I am ill. Now you go, Susan.” 

“ That’s a fine thing. Miss May — in- 
venting a illness at a pinch ! He’ll 
know it’s nothing but a excuse.” 

May laughed pleasantly. She rather 
hoped he would. 

“ I’m sure I can’t think of nothing to 
say,” obstinately persisted Susan, push- 
ing back her cap. 

“ Say I’ve got the mumps, Susan. 
My compliments to Captain Clanwaring, 
and I’m sorry not to be able to see him, 
but I can’t talk from an attack of 
mumps.” 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

MISS EMMA GEACH. 

There was discord at Beechhurst 
Dene. Christmas week -7- that is, the 
week following Christmas — is generally 
regarded as one intended to be social 
and festive ; but this one at Beechhurst 
Dene was especially unpleasant. The 
days, as they went on, were full of dis- 
comfort ; each day worse than the last. 
The Lady Lydia seemed to be doing 
her work well — that of getting Tom 
Clanwaring out of the house. Not 
only out of the house and neighborhood 


MISS EMMA GEACH 


151 


did she intend to send him, but out of 
the country. She was devoting her 
whole energies, her great influence, to 
the task. Circumstances favored her 
in rather a remarkable degree, as will 
be seen presently : they were to favor 
her more ere the week should be out. 
Dissension reigned. It was the whole 
household against Tom, and Tom 
against the household. Some insults 
were put upon him that stung him into 
retort. Petty charges were brought 
against him ; trifles in themselves, but 
magnified into grave offences by the 
manner in which they were repeated 
to Sir Dene Clanwaring ; and in these 
might lie just enough of truth to ren- 
der them plausible, and at any rate 
hard to disprove. Graver charges were 
soon to be whispered — and Tom might 
not have been able to refute them, even 
had the opportunity been allowed him. 
But it was not. 

Sir Dene was keeping his room. 
Full of pain, both of mind and body, 
he was more irritable than he had ever 
been known to be. His anger against 
Tom, for having absented himself and 
gone to Simmons’s (as he was led to 
think) on Christmas Evening, rankled 
within him. He felt too vexed, too 
proud it may be said, to speak of it to 
Tom : and Tom, knowing nothing and 
suspecting nothing, could not of course 
refute it. Be you very sure Lady 
Lydia did not — and therefore the false 
impression remained with Sir Dene. 
The new feeeling against Tom was aug- 
mented by these other charges : they 
rankled in the baronet’s mind also ; 
and there was great discomfort. Never 
for a moment w'as Tom allowed to be 
alone with Sir Dene ; Lady Lydia with 
her specious contrivance managed that 
— and nobody suspected there was any 
contrivance in it: least of all, Tom. 

One day Tom was stung into retalia- 
tion. He was insolent to Lady Lydia, 
he retorted on Captain Clanwaring, he 
took something like a high tone with his 
grandfather. The lion within him was 
aroused at last ; the patient bearing of 
years, the calm enduring, gave way be- 
fore a moment’s passion. It was his 
grandfather’s changed manner to him 
that stung him into this — not the insults 
of the others. Had Sir Dene brought 
any specific charge against him, Tom 


could have answered it quietly : but 
nothing of the kind was done ; and, all 
the young man knew and saw was, that 
his grandfather at length turned against 
him, out of, as it seemed, very caprice^ 
But the grievous state of worry this dis- 
turbed condition of things kept Sir Dene 
in, can be better imagined than des- 
cribed. 

The private arrangements Lady Lydia 
had been engaged in, succeeded. They 
were now complete, ready to be acted 
upon ; and she disclosed the matter to 
Sir Dene. She had been negotiating 
with some of her relatives in Ireland, 
and had got Tom an appointiyent there 
to manage the land of a large estate. 
It was really a good post of its kind, 
and the salary would be fair. To a 
j^oung man seeking an opening in life 
it certainly was an opportunity not often 
to be met with. 

Nevertheless, Sir Dene turned a deaf 
ear. The very idea of Tom’s leaving 
Beechhurst Dene startled him. 

“ I’d not like it, my lady,” was his 
short, imperative answer. And by the 
words “ my lady,” it might be known 
that he felt resentment to her, rather 
than gratitude. 

She was not to be put down for that. 
She pointed out how excellent the chance 
was, how fitted Tom was for the post, 
and how great the returning peace bis 
departure would bring to the Dene. She 
had even found a man able and willing 
to replace Tom on the estate : one Mr. 
Weston : a humble cousin of the Miss 
Dickereens, who would be glad of the 
post. 

But no : Sir Dene wholly negatived 
it. Dining at the gamekeeper’s on 
Christmas Day, and turning on the 
household since when they quarreled 
with him, did not constitute sufficient 
offence to entail banishment, he said. 
Lady Lydia sighed and bit her lip, men- 
tally telling herself that she must have 
a little patience yet, but that, go^ Tom 
should. Little did even she think how 
ver\' soon it would be. 

There’s an old axiom — that people 
rarely accomplish any great amount of 
evil alone. Two certainly c§n do more 
harm than one. Wild beasts hunt in 
couples. It takes two to quarrel and 
fight ; it takes two to make an evil bar- 
gain. When a man commits a murder or 


152 


DENE HOLLOW. 


a succession of murders, the first public 
thought is — he must have had a helping 
companion. Thus, in the ill odor that 
latterly had attached itself to Miss Em- 
ma Geach, the discerning neighbors had 
been, not so much asking whether she 
had a help-mate in ill-doing — that went 
for a matter of course — as speculating 
who that help-mate might be. What- 
ever it was she had done, or was sus- 
pected of — whether she poached game 
as Black did, or robbed a house, or set a 
church on fire — the fact of her having 
had an aider and abettor was very sure 
and certain. Public cuilosity was always 
on the whet as to who this other might 
be : and the untoward circumstance, that 
no one in particular could be fixed upon, 
was, to say the least, mortifying. Harry 
Cole, the farrier and veterinary surgeon 
— a good-looking, fairly-well-educated 
man, who had succeeded to his father’s 
business — would be talked of one day ; 
Sir Dene’s groom, James, the next ; a 
smuggling acquaintance of Black’s who 
was often at the Trailing Indian, the 
third, and others : but when the utmost 
grounds of suspicion attaching to any 
one of these men came to be summed 
up, it was found to consist of one sole 
fact — that they might be seen on occa- 
sion openly talking and laughing with 
Miss Emma. Not quite enough, this, 
to justify an accusation of arson, or what 
not. So that, in point of fact, the tan- 
talized public considered themselves ill- 
used in the matter, and kept their eyes 
and their curiosity agape. 

Seeing Tom Clanwaring perched on 
the table at the Trailing Indian, famil- 
iarly located there with Mr. and Mrs. 
Black and Miss Emma, would have been 
nothing : young Dene might have done 
as much himself, for he had just the 
same sociable kind of nature, for sitting 
on the tables, or elsewhere, as Tom : but 
taken in conjunction with the private 
meeting and whispering between Tom 
and Emma Geach on Christmas night, 
that both Dene and Otto had been a 
witness to, it looked like something. 
The interview in the grove wore all the 
appearance of a secret one, of premedi- 
tation : and if young Dene joked a bit 
about the look of things, and Otto 
nodded assent in his steady manner, it 
was not to be surprised at. They had 
taken up the notion that Tom might 


have been the man who helped to — fire 
the church, let’s say. Not that he was^ 
they did not go so far as that; only 
that he might have been. Certain 
things were laughed and joked over 
more freely in those days than they are 
in these ; were, in fact, regarded as but 
venial errors. Dene talked and laughed 
about it indoors : and soon the only 
members of the household to whose ears 
the new suspicion had not penetrated, 
were Tom himself, Lady Lydia, and Sir> 
Dene. 

Strange to say, the sole one to reprove 
was Jarvis. Hold your foul tongues ! ” 
cried he savagely. ^‘Any way it’s no 
concern of yours.” Which reproof only 
set Dene laughing worse than before. 
And thus the week progressed, each day 
bringing more of discomfort and draw- 
ing matters nearer to a crisis. On the 
Thursday, Dene the heir and his brother 
Charles took their departure for Scot- 
land, to spend New Year’s Day with 
their mother. 

Friday came in, a morning bright 
with sunshine. The snow, threatened 
on the Monday, had cleared itself off 
without falling, and the weather was 
really lovely. Somewhat frosty : but 
calm, fresh, and clear. 

Talking together over the low gate 
of the narrow side avenue leading to 
Arde Hall, stood Tom Clanwaring and 
the Hall’s heiress; she inside, he out. 
As he was passing up from Hurst Leet, 
she happened to be there in her scarlet- 
hooded cloak and white muft', the hood 
of the cloak drawn round her bright 
face and bright brown curls. Fashions 
changed less capriciously than they 
do now — or perhaps economy made 
things last longer. Tom’s mother had 
worn just the same kind of cloak; but 
the cloaks had not gone quite out, even 
yet. There they stood : Tom oblivious 
of his business, May of the passing of 
time. 

“ I’m so glad he’s better,” said May, 
alluding to Sir Dene — for Tom had 
been telling her that his grandfiither 
was dowstairs again. Mr. Friar came 
in to tea last night and was talking 
about him. He thinks he is changing 
so very much.” 

“He has certainly changed in the 
last few days, for he has been irritable 
with me without cause — that is, when 


MISS EMMA GEACII. 


153 


he notices me at all,” replied Tom. 
“ For the most part he turns his head 
away from me, and when I speak gives 
me short and snappish answers.” 

“ Have you oifended him ? ” asked 
May. 

“ I suppose so : but I cannot imagine 
bow. Altogether I have not had a 
pleasant week of it, May. They are 
trying me tolerably hard just now.” 

He laughed as he said it. Sunshine 
was always in his heart, let be what 
would. The young make light of trou- 
bles. May Arde’s sweet brown eyes 
sparkled brightly in sympathy. 

“ When people are ill, they feel cross 
without knowing why, Tom. I suppose 
Dene and Charley have gone ? ” 

“ They started yesterday morning.” 

“ I like Dene. Charley too, for that 
matter. But I like Dene better than — 
yes, better than anybody else at Beech- 
hurst Dene,” she added, casting a 
saucy glance at the handsome face 
bending towards hers. Dene is al- 
wa3^s — oh Tom, look here ! ” 

A clatter and commotion in the road 
caught her ear, and the glittering silver 
of the sumptuous Clanwaring liveries 
her eye. The Beechhurst Dene cortege 
was approaching at a gallop. It was 
the custom then to pay morning calls 
in more state than roj’^alty observes 
now. Two outriders rode first ; and 
then came the large carriage with its 
four horses, and the postillions’ jackets 
laced with silver, harmonizing with the 
liveries of the outriders and the two 
standing footmen behind. Sir Dene 
did not drive four in hand. Tempted 
by the fineness of the day, my Lady 
Lj'dia had come out visiting ; her 
daughter, Mrs. Letsom, sat next her, 
Jarvis and Otto opposite. 

“ Tom, I do believe they are coming 
to the Hall ! ” cried May under her 
breath. 

Even so. The outriders took the 
sweep round that would bring them to 
the carriage entrance, running nearly 
side by side with the narrow beech 
avenue. Knowing, or suspecting, the 
feeling obtaining in Lady Lydia’s mind 
towards them, both Tom Clanwaring 
and May might have perferred to get 
out of sight, had there been means of 
doing it ; but the trees were bare in 
winter, affording no shelter. As the 


carriage swept round like lightning 
almost close to them, Tom lifted his 
hat to Lady Lydia and Mrs. Letsom. 

My lady answered the courtes}^ by a 
hard stare. 

“What a pace they are going at!” 
exclaimed Tom. “ Shall you have to ^ 
go in. May ? ” 

“ Oh, I must. Of course I must. 
Tom, he has been here everj’’ day this 
.week,” she cried in impulsive agitation, 
her bright eyes lifted for a moment, and 
then cast down again. “ Every blessed 
day, as Susan phrases it. And mamma 
is beginning to like him so very much ! ” 

“ Every daj", has he,” returned Tom, 
pushing back the breast of his velvet- 
een coat, as if he were too hot. 

“ I would not come down to him one 
day : Susan was in such a temper over 
it. Papa and mamma were out, and so 
I could do as I liked. When’s he go- 
ing away to join his regiment again ? ” 

“/ don’t know. May. He will have 
to do it soon, I should imagine, or else 
leave it altogether.” 

“ I’m sure he has got up his strength 
quite enough now.” 

“ Strength ? — oh it’s not that. May. 
There’s an attraction in the way. If 
he joined his regiment, he could not 
come down here at will.” 

May understood quite well — that she 
was the attraction. Deep in thought 
now, she was looking away, seeing 
nothing. 

“ I ivish I had not any money of my 
own I ” she whispered, reall}^ more to 
herself than to Tom. “ It’s that miser- 
able twenty thousand pounds of mine. 
Perhaps he’d not care for me without 
that. If my dear little sister had but 
lived, it would never have been mine.” 

“ True,” said Tom. 

“ Susan Cole used to tell me when I 
was naughty, that Master Tom — mean- 
ing you — would never care for me as he 
did for that little sister,” went on the 
young lady. 

“ Did she ? ” said Tom, a great mer- 
riment in his deep-set blue eyes, so mar- 
vellously beautiful. “ I loved that child 
dearly : I remember it still. I must 
have been very old when she died. May ; 
nearly four.” 

“ I must go ; or they’ll be sending 
for me,” cried Miss May, shrinking from 
the expression of the said eyes. “ Good- 


154 


DENE HOLLOW. 


bye. To-morrow’s New Year’s Day, you 
know. Don’t forget it.” 

“ No danger,” replied Tom Clanwar- 
ing. Good-bye, May.” 

An ordinary shake of the hands, and 
away went Tom, striding quickly to 
make up for lost time. 

“New Year’s day,” that May had 
reminded him of, implied a meeting. 
A meeting for them. Just as it had 
grown into a custom for the Ardes to 
eat their Christmas dinner at Beech- 
hurst Dene, so had it for the Clanwar- 
ings to dine at the Hall on the first day 
of the new year. If nobody else looked 
forward with a heart-spring to the mor- 
row’s festive gathering, the two who had 
just parted did. Parted reluctantly — 
for they would have liked to linger away 
the whole morning together. 

Eather surprised was Tom, upon 
going up Dene Hollow, to see a few 
people congregated there ; half a dozen, 
or so. A cart had come to grief on 
nearly the old unlucky spot. It could 
not this time be charged on the 
“ Shadow.” The linchpin had disap- 
peared from one of the wheels j and the 
cart, which had contained grains (on 
their way to be conveyed to Mr. I'illett’s 
pigs), was overturned. The sweet- 
smelling grains lay scattered on the 
highway j Hodge, Mr. Tillett’s wagoner 
— for the cart was Mr. Tillett’s — stand- 
ing by with a most rueful face. 

The accident had occurred just as the 
Beechhurst Dene cortege was passing ; 
it had startled the carriage horses, and 
sent them flying downwards at such a 
rate as to put the outriders to the gallop, 
and threatened another accident. Lady 
Lydia, ignoring chances, always went 
the way of Dene Hollow when she 
could : its level road and fair scenery 
were pleasant to her. 

“ Which accounts for the sharp pace 
they came round at,” thought Tom as 
he listened to this, and recalled the speed 
of the horses. 

Leaving the cart and grains to their 
unhappy fate, he pursued his way, and 
turned into Harebell Farm. Not to tell 
of the disaster particularly, but because 
he had some business with its master, 
Philip Tiilett. Mr. Tillett however was 
not at home, and Tom stayed a few 
minutes talking with Mary Barber. 

For Mary Barber, the thoroughly 


capable and earnest-minded woman- 
somewhat hard and superstitious though 
she might be — had never quitted Hare- 
bell Farm. William Owen did not 
want her when he migrated to his new 
home : he meant to marry ; and did so 
shortly afterwards : and Mary Barber 
remained with Mr. Tillett and his 
motherless young daughter. She was 
called housekeeper, but was treated and 
respected as one of the family ; having 
two maids under her, instead of one as 
in Mrs. Owen’s time. When Tom went 
in she was seated in the parlor, hemming 
a white cravat of Mr. Tillett’s. 

“ Bless my heart ! ” she exclaimed, 
staring at Tom through her tortoise- 
shell-rimmed spectacles when he told 
the news. “ The wheel off, and all tli^ 
pigs’ food a-lying in the road ! ” 

“ Every grain of it,” said Tom. 

Cole’s man has got the wheel in hand, 
beginning to tinker it up.” 

“ The wheel baint much. The grains 
is the worst. And for you to be a-laugh- 
ing over it, Mr. Tom ! ” 

“ Oh they’ll get the grains up again. 
You’d laugh yourself, if you had seen 
it, Mary Barber. Hodge’s face was 
better than a picture.” 

“ There’s no luck with our pigs this 
year,” lamented she. “ I said so to the 
master the t’other day. That last lot o’ 
wash, made for ’em, got put into a new 
painted barrel, through one o’ the men’s 
carelessness, and a’most pisoned the 
pigs.” 

“ Only not quite,” put in Tom, al- 
ways looking on the sunniest side of , 
things. 

“ Well now, Mr. Tom — what caused 
the mishap to-day ? ” 

“ Why, I told you, Mary. The wheel 
came oif the cart.” 

“ ’Twarn’t that, sir.” 

“But it was that,” returned Tom, 
looking at her. 

“ 'TwarnH that,” came the emphatic 
repetition. “ ’Twas the Shadow.” 

“ Nonsense ! Rubbish ! ” 

The retort nettled Mary Barber. The 
Shadow was there, and would be 
always there, she said solemnly : and 
she put it to him plainly whether horses 
were, or were not, in the habit of start- 
ing at that place. Tom, half-laughing, 
confessed they were, saying no more 
about the cart-wheel, intending to drop 


MISS EMMA GEACH. 


155 


the argument altogether. Kot so Mary 
Barber. Laying down the cravat and 
her spectacles on the table, she bent 
her face a little forward. 

“ What is it that frightens the ani- 
mals, pray ? Tell me that if you can, 
Mr. Tom.’’ 

“ I’m sure I don’t know,” said Tom, 
“ unless it’s the shadow of the branches, 
cast on the road by the sun.” 

It’s not that, sir ; you must know 
it’s not. The shadow’s one of another 
sort. I give it a different name in my 
own mind.” 

“What name ?” 

“ A curse.” 

“ A curse ! ” 

“A curse,” she repeated in her sol- 
emn tone. “ Why, what else is it, sir ? 
Hasn’t it been as a curse to a good 
many folk ? Sir Dene couldn’t have 
thought it nothing less when he saw his 
blooming grandchild a-lying dead afore 
him.” 

Tom made no rejoinders now. His 
cousin Margaret’s sad death had indeed 
brought grievous sorrow. To none 
worse than to him. To him, who had 
been the one to pick Margaret up. 

“We thought it was the ice that made 
the horses slip. There was ice on the 
road, you remember, Mary Barber.” 

“ Bother the ice,” irreverently re- 
sponded Mary Barber. “ ’Twas the ex- 
cuse made, I know : but who believed 
it?” 

Very few, Tom might have answered 
— had he chosen. Mary Barber resum- 
ed ; her voice impressive again, hardly 
raised above a whisper., 

“That time when my poor mother 
spoke to me o’ the shadow — dying she 
was, though I didn’t see it — it sounded 
but like so much gibberish in my two 
ears. But that I knowed her to be sane, 
I’d ha’ thought her mind was a-rambling. 
The next day, when she was dead, the 
words came back to me in a different 
way : for I’ve been a good deal with the 
dead and dying, Mr. Tom, and I know 
that what they speak just afore the soul 
departs is sometimes like a prophecy. 
And as I stood at her grave i’ the 
churchyard while the parson was read- 
ing the bur’al over her out o’ the Prayer- 
book, and thought o’ what it was that 
had sent her to it afore her time, there 
come into my mind a kind o’ light. A 


light o’ conviction, one might call it: 
that mother’s dying words were true 
— and that a curse lay on the fine new 
road that had killed her. It’s a-lying 
there to this day.” 

The less superstitious and more practi- 
cal among the neighbors were apt to 
smile at this fixed belief of Mary Bar- 
ber’s and call it her “crotchet.” Her 
master, Mr. Tillett, a man of good sound 
sense, told her to her face that she would 
go mad upon the foolish point some day, 
if she didn’t take care. Perhaps Tom 
Clanwaring shared Mr. Tillett’s scepti- 
cism, for he took up his hat to depart 
without comment of any sort. 

“ Tell the master I’ll look in again to- 
morrow, Mary Barber. If he’ll consent 
to make the alteration. Sir Dene will go 
half-way in the cost. But we must have 
an answer. Good day.” 

Meanwhile the Lady Lydia paid her 
visits, a round of them. Mrs. Arde’s 
was the only one near home ; the rest 
lay at a distance. While the afternoon 
was still bright, the outriders came can- 
tering round the corner by Cole the far- 
rier’s, and took the old hilly road that 
led to Beechhurst Dene, the nearest way 
from whence they were coming. The 
carriage followed close upon . the out- 
riders ; and my lady, inside it, felt tired 
to death. As it whirled round the cor- 
ner— rather a sharp turn, that, by Cole’s 
— two people stood talking outside the 
forge — having met accidentally a minute 
before. Tom Clanwaring was one ; his 
occupation had taken him to some land 
that lay out there : the other was Miss 
Emma Geach. A traveller, whose horse 
became suddenly disabled, had rode in 
for refuge at the Trailing Indian, and 
the girl was despatched to fetch Cole. 
Nothing loth, she : especially as she 
seized on the opportunity to attire her- 
self in her Sunday-going things. 

A gay gipsy hat upon her abundant 
hair, gleaming and glistening in the 
winter sunlight, and some blue ribbons 
flying amidst it, stood she. Otto Clan- 
waring looked from the carriage and 
made some remark to his brother in a 
low tone. Not so low, however, but that 
its sense struck on the ear of Lady 
Lydia. 

“ What ? ” she exclaimed. “ What’s 
that you say, Otto ? ” 

He answered by a light word or two, 


156 


DENE HOLLOW. 


as if the matter he spoke of were of no 
serious moment. Assuredly he did not 
doit in ill-nature. ‘‘1 don’t affirm it, 
you know,’’ he said: but appearances 
certainly are against Tom.” 

Ay, they were, unfortunately. A 
dusky red. light, telling of emotion, 
shone in my lady’s dark face : she leaned 
out, and looked back. Tom was striding 
onwards then, and Miss Geach was ex- 
changing compliments with Cole. The 
disclosure struck her quite as a revela- 
tion. She had shared the curiosity of 
the public as to the doings of Miss 
Emma Geach. Otto would have dis- 
missed the subject with a few careless 
words. 

What are your proofs, Otto ? ” she 
asked, leaning forward to speak in his 
ear. 

“ Proofs ? Oh, I don’t know about 
proofs,” was the answer, still carelessly 
indifferent. And then he just mentioned 
what he and young Dene had seen. 

My lady was virtuously indignant — of 
course. To do her justice, she believed 
the story : and began talking of it in 
private with her eldest son when they 
got home. 

“ Let it drop,” said Jarvis, curtly^. 

Drop ! ” she retorted. “ I’ll let it 
drop when I have told Sir Dene. He 
can let it drop if he will.” 

“ Conf6und it, madam I can’t you hold 
your tongue !” savagely cried Jarvis. 

“No, I can’t, Jarvis. This was just 
what was wanted to get the fellow 
away.” 

“Eh? what?” returned Jarvis, a 
sudden gleam awakening in his sly dark 
eyes. 

“ Why, don’t you see that it is ? I 
knew how worthless he must be ; but 
the difficulty was to bring proofs of it to 
Sir Dene.” 

Jarvis drew along breath. He began 
to discern a little light of way. Lady 
Lydia resumed. 

“ Putting all other considerations 
aside. Sir Dene could not- allow him to 
remain here now. It seems quite like a 
Providence, Jarvis. I thought some- 
thing or other would turn up. It’s what 
I’ve been waiting for.” 

Not until the following day, the first 
of the new year, did Lady Lydia get the 
opportunity of conveniently speaking to 
Sir Dene. Their interview was a long 


one. What she said at it never was 
known, but we ma}" be quite sure of one 
thing, that she did not tell her tale by 
halves. Otto — to his own intense dis- 
gust — was called in to testify to it. 

“I’ll be shot if I’d have dropped a 
word to her had I thought she was go- 
ing to make this row over it, and do him 
damage with the old man!” mentally 
cried Otto in wrath. But — always 
speaking the truth if called upon to 
speak at all — he corroborated all, so far 
as he had cognizance of it. It appeared 
to be conclusive to Sir Dene : as might 
be seen by the look of utter sorrow on 
his pale face. In spite of all, he had 
loved Tom ; had trusted him utterly ; 
and this struck upon him as a cruel 
blow, rendering him unjust. What he 
ought to have done was to question Tom 
himself ; and this he did not. His out- 
raged pride, worked upon also by Lady 
Lydia, forbade it. 

How the day went on, even Lady 
Lydia hardly knew. Never had one of 
greater unpleasantness been spent at 
Beechhurst Dene. Tom came in during 
the afternoon: and Jarvis picked a quar- 
rel with him. For once he succeeded in 
putting Tom in a passion— and there 
were rare moments, as was previously 
said, when Tom could go into a passion 
with the best of them. When he was 
in this white heat, Jarvis unwisely (or 
wisely as the reader may decide) ven- 
tured on a word of insult more sting- 
ing than customary. In his cool, su- 
percilious, contemptuous manner, he 
threw in Tom’s teeth a reproach of the 
accusation they were whispering against 
him. It was but a hint, a syllable ; 
but quite enough : Tom Clanwaring 
lifted his hand and knocked the gal- 
lant officer down. Sir Dene was a 
witness to it : it occurred in his own 
bay parlor, which he was just entering. 
That brought on the climax. Smart- 
ing under one thing and another, Tom 
the scapegoat appeared in that moment 
to Sir Dene as a very offshoot of Satan ; 
and he swore a round oath that he should 
be out of Beechhurst Dene before night. 
The Lady Lydia had received an oppor- 
tune letter that very morning, urging 
Tom Clanwaring’s immediate acceptance 
of the post offered him, or else it must 
be given away elsewhere. 

Verily, as my lady herself had re- 


AN EVENTFUL EVENING. 


157 


marked, it seemed that Providence was 
specially at work, ordering things in 
favor of the interests of herself and 
Captain Clan waring ! 


CHAPTER XXV. 

AN EVENTFUL EVENING. 

New Year’s evening. The reception 
rooms at Arde Hall were in a blaze of 
light; not with stifling gas, as is too 
much the fashion in these modern years, 
but with wax candles, cool and pure. It 
was Mr. and Mrs. Arde’s custom to give 
a grand dinner the first day of the new 
year to as many guests as their dining- 
room would conveniently hold : and that 
was four-and-tweuty. Eour-and-twenty 
had been invited for to-day ; but only 
two-and twenty came : Sir Dene Clan- 
waring and his grandsom Tom were 
absent. 

Sir Dene sent an apology for himself : 
he had hoped to be well enough to come, 
but quite at the last moment found he 
was not. For Tom little was said — he 
was altogether too insignificant to waste 
speech on. Lady Lydia spoke a few ob- 
scure words about going a journey ; and 
Captain Clanwaring, stroking his hand- 
some moustache, made a supercilious re- 
mark in May’s ear as he was taking her 
in to dinner, to the effect that Sir Dene 
found Tom could no longer be tolerated. 
That was all. Tom’s absence caused 
neither grief nor comment; nobody 
missed him or cared for it. Nobody, save 
one : and she might not show that she 
did. May heard Captain Clanwaring 
with a bright eye and smiling face, but 
her heart was sick with disappointment. 
The sunshine of the evening had gone 
out for her : too keenly she felt it, sit- 
ting through the long dinner. 

The ladies rose to quit the dining- 
room ; May went out last, following her 
mother. Captain Clanwaring whispered 
something to her as she passed — for it 
was he who bowed them out. May 
laughed in response : a suflBciently light 
laugh to listening ears. But her step 
grew slow and heavy as the door closed. 
They were all within the drawing-room 
before she was at its door. 

“ Miss May ! ” 

Turning round at the whispered 


words, she saw Susan Cole. The 
woman had a folded slip of paper in 
her hand. 

Mr. Tom Clanwaring is outside, 
Miss May. There’s something wrong, 
I’m afeared. He asked me if I could 
manage to give you this without any- 
body’s seeing.” 

Opening the paper, she stood under- 
neath the hall lamp while she read it. 
Susan Cole, her mission executed, van- 
ished. 

“ I am going away, Mary ; probably for 
years, possibly for ever. Will you come out 
to me for one minute ? I am at the avenue 
gate. — T . C. ” 

Her brain was confused ; her heart 
was beating with its wild pain. Going 
away for ever ! Showing herself for a 
minute or two in the drawing-room as 
a matter of precaution. May caught up 
a woollen shawl, and ran out at the hall 
door. The avenue gate was only across 
the lawn. It was a starlight night, 
cold and frosty,’ but she did not at once 
distinguish any one, for the shrubs grew 
thick there. 

He had his back against the gate, but 
he stepped to meet her as she advanced. 
Involuntarily, in her deep agitation, she 
put out both her hands. He clasped 
and held them fondly to him, his agi- 
tation as great as her own. 

In moments of agony — and these 
were nothing less — the mind is for the 
most part in a state of bewilderment. 
It was so with Mary Arde ; it was so 
with him. But a confused impression 
was retained by her afterwards, as to 
what was said at the interview. Per- 
haps the fault lay chiefly with Tom 
Clanwaring, for in his angry excitement 
he was less clear than he might have 
been. Those who had been always 
against him, trying to get him sent out 
of Beechhurst Dene, liad done their 
work at last, and ruined him with his 
grandfather, .he said. He was being 
sent away. Heaven knew where; cer- 
tainly with little prospect of ever being 
allowed to return. He had to depart 
for Bristol at once by the night-mail, 
and wait in that city for orders, on, his 
way to Ireland. 

She leaned against the gate for sup- 
port : she would have pardoned him had 
he taken her to his arms and held her to 
his sheltering breast. But Tom Clan- 


158 


DENE HOLLOW. 


waring, honorable as ever, dared not. 
Many and many a time had the warm 
words of love rashly trembled on his 
lips, and he had turned them off with 
some light jest : if he had put a re- 
straint on himself then, how doubly 
needful was it that he should do so now ! 
Even his own poor quasi-position in the 
baronet’s household was torn from him, 
and he was being sent into the world 
adrift, a real servant, to work for his 
living. The inconsistency of his at- 
tempting to think of Squire Arde’s 
daughter was more palpably present to 
him that night than it had ever pre- 
viously been. 

“ I would have liked to wish Mr. and 
Mrs. Arde good-bye, May ; but I cannot 
encounter the crowd they’ve got here to- 
night. So the will must go for the 
deed.” 

But what is it that you have done ? ” 
she gasped. Why are they sending 
you away ? ” 

“ I hardly know myself. May.” 

Oh but you must know,” she said, 
thinking it was an evasion, made to 
spare her pain. “ What is it, Tom ? ” 

You will hear no end of charges 
against me, I doubt not,” he said, and 
the vagueness of the reply, as if it were 
still an evasive one, did strike on her 
memory afterwards. I don’t know 
what they may say : and I don’t think it 
is of much use asking you not to believe 
them. I was always the scapegoat, you 
know ; I shall be so to the end. May, 
I can no longer battle against the stream 
— and if I could, what end would it 
answer ? It may be better for me that 
I should be away : but for leaving my 
dear old grandfather, I’d say there could 
not be a question of it. Think of me 
as kindly as you can, Mary.” 

The tears were streaming down her 
cheeks. “ Only tell me, Tom, that you 
have done nothing very wrong,” she 
whispered, her mind a chaos of confu- 
sion, of fear. Fear, she knew not of 
what : and perhaps his own want of 
clearness led to it. Mary Arde. had 
never believed it possible that Sir Dene 
could turn against Tom to the length of 
discarding him — without some ample 
cause. 

If I have, they have goaded me to 
it,” was his answer, spoken in the mo- 
ment’s reckless irritation, as he recalled 


the passion he had been in, the flooring 
he had given the captain: for he at- 
tached no meaning to May’s words, or 
suspected that she could really believe 
ill of him. “God bless and be with 
you always, Mary I I cannot stay 
longer ; neither ought I to keep you out 
here. But I could not leave the place 
for good without seeing you.” 

“ Why — why do you say it is for 
good ? ” 

“ Be you very sure that they who 
have procured my banishment will take 
efficient care I don’t return. May. 
That’s why.” 

“ Are we to part — ■. like this ? ” she 
wailed, her voice in its anguish rising 
almost beyond her own controlling 
calmness. 

“ Mary, my darling, don’t tempt me. 
Do you know what it is costing me to 
part like this? — to stand here and say 
quietly to you, I am going ? Have you 
not known for some time past that if, I 
had dared — There, I must not go on ; 
another moment and the temptation to 
speak will be greater than I can resist. 
You understand well, I fancy, Mary. 
Circumstances cast a wide barrier be- 
tween us, and I may not presume to 
think of ever passing it. If there were 
but the least prospect of my achieving 
any position in the world, I might say 
to you, I will, hope without forfeiting 
all honor j but there is none, and I do 
not.” 

She put out her trembling hands once 
more j she lifted her streaming eyes to 
his. To those wonderful blue ones in 
their deep caves, whose beauty the 
night could not wholly hide. The 
temptation was too great, and Tom 
Clanwaring bent his face on hers. 

“ It is but a cousin’s kiss, Mary,” he 
murmured : “ we used to call ourselves 
cousins when we were children — taught 
so by Susan Cole. Surely none will 
grudge it us in parting. When I re- 
turn — if I ever do — no doubt all danger 
will be over.” 

“Danger?” she breathed, question- 
ingly. 

“ The danger that the scapegoat 
might forget himself and his honor by 
speaking of love. When you are the 
wife of a more lucky man than I, I 
may come back. May. Never before, 
unless my grandfather recalls me.” 


AN EVENTFUL EVENING. 


159 


“ You give me up, then ? ” she ex- 
claimed in her pain : *in the mortifica- 
tion that the renouncement undoubtedly 
brought to her. 

“ I do. I have no other resource. 
My parting blessing be upon you, 
Mary.” 

She drew her hands from his with a 
petulant gesture, and sped across the 
lawn, one bitter sob breaking from her 
lips : one more than bitter question 
from her heart — Did he care for her ? 
When girls love as romantically as did 
Mary Arde, they are apt to fancy that 
all else should give place to it. Tom 
Clanwaring was Sir Dene’s grandson — 
and May resentfully thought he might 
have been content to wait and see 
whether fortune would not be kind, 
before he renounced her. He knew she 
had money — so they should not hav-e 
starved ! A few minutes alone in her 
chamber, effacing the traces of the tell- 
tale tears, and then she was in the 
drawing-room, quite unnaturally gay, 
whirling through a mazy country dance 
with Captain Clanwaring. 

There was one other person that Tom 
Clanwaring would not omit to say fare- 
well to before he left the neighborhood : 
and that was Mary Barber. In strid- 
ing up to Harebell Farm, he met Cole 
the farrier at the turning of the lane. 
It will be remembered that this was the 
son of the man spoken of as Cole the 
farrier in the first portion of this history. 
Young Cole and Tom had always been 
good friends. 

Good night, Mr. Tom,” said the man 
as he was passing. 

‘‘ Good night, and good-bye,” replied 
Tom. “ I am going away. Cole.” 

Cole wheeled round on his heel. Ay, 
sir, so I gathered at the Dene this even- 
ing. But not just yet, are you ? ” 

In an hour’s time. James drives 
me in the gig to catch the Bristol mail 
at Worcester. Good luck to you. Cole ! ” 

“ Stop a moment, sir — I beg your par- 
don. The servants said something- about 
a quarrel with Captain Clanwaring : is 
that the reason you've got to go ? ” 

“ I suppose so.” 

“ Nothing has happened since that to 
send you ? ” continued Cole, with an 
emphasis, as marked, on the one word. 

“ Nothing whatever. Fare you well, 
Cole. I’ve no time to lose.” 


I As he went on up Harebell Lane, 
Cole stood and looked after him, as if in 
some hesitation. Finally he continued 
his way towards his home. 

Mary Barber was alone in the kitchen 
when Tom went in ; her mind intent 
upon a curious incident that had occurred 
to her earlier in the evening, her hands 
busy with some preparation of cooking 
for the morrow. To say that she was 
struck into herself with the news — that 
Tom was going into banishment in Ire- 
land — -would be saying little. Ireland, 
to the imagination of quiet country peo- 
ple, represented something like the oppo- 
site end of the world. 

“ It can’t be ! ” she exclaimed, drop- 
ping the fork from her fingers, and leav- 
ing the eggs to beat up themselves. 

I’m going this very night, Mary. 
This very minute, I may almost say ; 
for in a few minutes I must be off.” 

Mary Barber stood quite still. Like 
Miss Arde, she thought he must have 
done something ill to turn his grand- 
father against him to this extent. Ban- 
ished to Ireland ! The very extremity 
of the measure brought its own revulsion 
in her mind. 

“ It won’t be for long, Mr. Tom.r Sir 
Dene*’ud never keep you all out there. 
’Twould be like transportation.” 

“ I have got to go, Mary : whether it’s 
for long or short.” 

What on earth ’ll be done with the 
land ? Who’ll look to it ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” he replied. “ They’ll 
get somebody, I suppose.” 

“ Not they,” dissented Mary Barber. 

You’ll be sent for back to ’t, Mr. Tom. 
And a nice kettle o’ fish I dare be bound 
you’ll find things in ! You. away, and 
Sir Dene laid by — fine times it’ll be for 
the men ! ” 

Leaving her in this comforting belief 
without contradiction, Tom crossed the 
lane and went in home. The time of 
his departure was at hand : J ames wait- 
ed in the gig to drive him into Worces- 
ter to catch the Bristol night mail, com- 
ing through the town on its way from 
Birmingham. He had been in hopes of 
seeing his grandfather once more. 

It’s o’ no good, Mr. Tom,” said 
Gander sorrowfully. Sir Dene he give 
orders he was not to be disturbed no 
more to-night on no account whatever; 
and he locked his room when he went 


160 


DENE HOLLOW. 


up to bed. Your portmanteau and other 
things is in the gig, sir.” 

“ Then there’s nothing more to keep 
me h«re. Turned out like a dog ! Good- 
bye, Gander,” he added, shaking the 
man’s hand heartily as he went out to 
the gig. 

“ I’ll drive, James.” 

The groom handed him the reins, and 
‘took the seat by his side. Gander’ 
watched the gig until the night hid it 
from his view. There came into the 
man’s remembrance the turning out of 
his father, Geoffry Clanwaring. A pre- 
vision lay upon Gander that Tom would 
never come back, to be forgiven as Geof- 
fry was. 

The departure of Tom Clanwaring 
took the neighborliood by surprise : and 
the more especially so because the pre- 
cise cause of his banishment could not 
be ascertained. Sir Dene had issued a 
sharp general order to Lady Lydia and 
her family that nothing should be spoken 
of abroad — meaning in regard to ill- 
doing Miss Emma Geach. For once 
Lady Lydia was glad to obey him : her 
object was gained ; Tom was gone, and 
she could well concede the rest. Jarvis 
was silent from policy ; Otto from vexa- 
tion ; and Dene and Charles Clanwaring 
were away. So that scandal was buried ; 
never. Sir Dene hoped, to be unearthed 
again. But there was another sin, or 
rather a frightful suspicion of it, brought 
against Tom ; on which it might be 
well, for the honor of the family, to be 
silent also. 

By the time service v.’as over on the 
following day, Sunday, the second of 
January, the fact that Tom Clanwaring 
had been sent from Beechhurst Dene in 
disgrace, was pretty generally known 
abroad. Servants will talk : and the 
news had spread. Lady Lydia and her 
children talked, for that matter, telling 
the fact that he was gone. Certain hints 
and innuendoes were dropped by them 
(not by Otto) imparting a confirmed no- 
tion that Tom must have been guilty of 
some conduct too bad to be spoken of, 
and which for the sake of the name he 
bore had to be hushed up. How near 
they were to the truth — or, rather, to 
what was supposed to be the truth at 
Beechhurst Dene — few guessed. 

But, of all, none felt more surprise 


than Squire Arde. In his secret heart 
he not only liked Tom Clanwaring, but 
thought well of him : and he could not 
imagine Tom could be guilty of any 
really bad conduct. In candor it must 
be added that the Squire had not the re- 
motest suspicion of any attachment ex- 
isting between Tom and his daughter ; 
in his pride he would have deemed it 
utterly impossible. May had not spoken 
of Tom’s visit of the previous night. 

Leaving his wife and daughter at 
their own home after service, the Squire 
went on with Lady Lydia to Beechhurst 
Dene. Sir Dene, only just up, and 
looking very ill, opened his heart at the 
sight of his friend of many years, who 
stood, as maj" be said, in the light of 
uncle to Tom the scapegoat. And, in 
point of fact, the relationship, if it may 
be called so, of the Squire Arde to Tom, 
had always stood rather as a barrier in 
my lady’s plans against him. During 
the walk home she had talked in the 
most motherly way of Tom, lamenting ^ 
his deplorable sins after the manner of 
a pitying angel. Not even out of her 
did Mr. Arde get at the nature of the 
sins; but she did drop a hint that he 
had shamefully wronged his grandfather 
in some money transactions in the hour 
of his departure. Mr. Arde asked the 
baronet point-blank wdiat this wrong 
was. 

“ Wh}^ did Lydia speak of it ? ” re- 
joined Sir Dene, a shade of bitter 
mortification rising in his pale sad face, 
‘‘Ungrateful as he has proved himself, 
unworthy the name of Clanwaring, I d 
not have it talked of abroad for the 
world. All this past night, in spite of 
his conduct in the other bad affair, I’ve 
been saying to myself that it surely 
cannot have been he. To steal money 
is not the work of a Clanwaring.” 

“ What other affair ? ” questioned 
Mr. Arde, noting the words. 

“Never mind — nothing,” returned 
Sir Dene sharply. “ That at least may 
be sunk in oblivion from henceforth. 
He has got his dismissal for it, so let it 
be.” 

And on this point Mr. Arde found it 
was useless to question further. So that 
he was no wiser than before as to the 
true cause that had led to Tom’s dis- 
grace. They told him of the other : as 
Lady Lydia had hinted at it, Sir Dene 


AN EVENTFUL EVENING. 


161 


thought it might he as well to disclose 
the whole. The baronet just mentioned 
the heads, hating every word that fell 
from his lips, and my lady supplied the 
details. 

The facts were these. After the ex- 
plosion had taken place the previous 
afternoon, and Tom had been made to 
understand lie must quit the place that 
niglit, Sir Dene, terribly upset by the 
disturbance, shut himself into the bay- 
parlor. The agitation had made him 
too ill to think of keeping his dinner 
engagement at the Hall, and he charged 
those who w'ere going to say so. My 
lady and Mrs. Letsom went up betimes 
to attire themselves for the visit : Cap- 
tain Clan waring, reviving from the 
effects of his overthrow and Tom’s blow, 
was engaged with a visitor. One of the 
two gentlemen who had dined there on 
Christmas Day had again driven over 
from Worcester. It was Major Fife. 
He declined to come indoors, saying he 
had not time, but asked the captain to 
walk about a bit with him out of doors. 
So they made their way round to that 
side of the house where the trees and 
shrubs were thick. 

While Sir Dene was thus sitting alone 
in the dark, almost dark, Gander pre- 
sented himself, saying that Mr. Parker 
had called to pay his rent. Eather glad 
to receive it — for the rent, half a year’s, 
had been due since Michaelmas — Sir 
Dene bid Gander show him in. Mr. 
Parker entered, making many apologies 
for not having been able to bring the 
money before. Sir Dene, alwaj’s consid- 
erate to his tenants, especially the small 
ones, heard him with good-nature, and 
filled in a receipt — some of which he 
kept ready written in that upright piece 
of furniture, the secretaire — by firelight. 
The money, forty-five pounds, was hand- 
ed to Sir Dene in a canvas bag general- 
ly used for samples of barley, the farmer 
observing that twenty pounds of it was 
in gold, and the rest in notes on the 
Worcester old bank, and that Sir Dene 
would find the amount correct. Sir 
Dene nodded ; he had no doubt of that ; 
and put the bag on the table, unopened. 
Mr. Parker, declining refreshment, left, 
being in a hurry, saying he would call 
for his bag in a day or two and drink a 
glass of ale then. After his departure. 
Sir Dene sat a few minutes in thought ; 

10 


and then with a deep sigh, stood up, un- 
did the bag, and counted the money. 
He was putting it back in the bag and 
tying the tape round the neck when 
Tom Clan waring came in. The sight 
of him disturbed Sir Dene afresh. 
Hastily thrusting the bag into the sec- 
retaire, the lid of which had stood open, 
he was about to lock it, when, either from 
agitation or by accident, he dropped the 
key. Tom stepped forward and picked 
it up, to save his grandfather stooping. 
Sir Dene locked the secretaire, but did 
not take the key out : for Tom had begun 
to speak and he turned quickly to con- 
front him in his anger, pointing imperi- 
ously to the door.” 

Quit m}’’ presence, sir.” 

Not on the instant did Tom obey. 
He had come in to speak his contrition 
for the heat he had displayed an hour 
before, the passion given vent to in the 
presence of him, his grandfather. Not 
a syllable would Sir Dene hear : and by 
way of summarily cutting short the dis- 
cussion, he went out of the room, leav- 
ing Tom in it. Gander, standing at his 
pantry door, accosted his master as he 
was passing on to the dining-room, to say 
that Cole the farrier was craving a min- 
ute’s speech of Sir Dene. 

' “ I can’t see him ; I can’t attend to 
anything just now,” interupted Sir 
Dene. “ Let him come later.” 

Gander had no need to repeat this to 
Cole, for the man was standing behind 
him and heard it. Cole had been re- 
galed in the servants’ hall with the ac- 
count of the explosion, and that Mr. 
Tom was turned out. Saying he would 
call again towards night, he took his de- 
parture. 

After pacing the dining-room for three 
or four minutes in much perturbation, 
Sir Dene returned to the bay-parlor. 
It was empty then — as he expected — 
the door was shut and all things were 
apparently undisturbed. Eemembering 
that he had left the key in the lock of 
the secretaire, Sir Dene took it out before 
he sat down. 

Eather a remarkable circumstance it 
was, taken in conjunction with another 
remarkable circumstance to be told of 
immediately, that Sir Dene did not 
again quit the bay-parlor, but remained 
in it for the evening. He took nothing 
but a basin of soup for his dinner j and, 


162 


DENE HOLLOW. 


that, he caused Gander to bring to liim : 
the famil}’^, you remember, going to dine 
at the Hall. Between seven and eight 
o’clock he sent Gander to summon to 
his presence Tom Clanwaring, who was 
then upstairs packing his things. This 
was to be the last interview. Very 
coldly and distantly did Sir Dene speak 
to Tom, gave him a few concise instruc- 
tions as to how he was to proceed to 
take the mail that night as it passed 
through Worcester on its way to Bris- 
tol ; and thence travel to the latter 
place, where he would wait at'^an inn 
for instructions from Ireland. Taking 
out his pocket-book, he handed him, a 
sum of money in notes for his^ journey, 
and something over, shool^iands with 
him by way of farewell.^r^d dismissed 
him, wishing him, as a pfl|^ng injunc- 
tion, better behavior in an<^her place 
than he had latterly displayed at Beech- 
hurst* Dene. Tom would have lingered. 
He earnestly desired to say a word in 
his own defence — though, be it always 
understood, he was entirely ignorant of 
any particularly grave offence being at- 
tributed to him — to plead his cause and 
, ask why his grandfather was taking this 
extreme measure of discarding him. But 
!Sir Dene stopped him at the onset : he 
refused to hear a word, and told him 
that he would not. And this was their 
final leave-taking: Tom completed his 
packing, and then went off to seek the 
interview wdth May Arde. Sir Dene 
sat on, alone. 

Between eight and nine. Cole came 
again, and was admitted. His business 
was to get the prescription for some 
famous new horse mM|ame : of which 
Sir Dene had spok^^^ him a week 
before, and promised him the loan of. 
Sir Dene went at once to the secretaire 
to get the paper, telling Cole to hold the 
light. The tirst thing that struck Sir 
Dene on pulling down the lid, was that 
the bag of money was gone. In his 
astonishment he spoke words which 
disclosed enough to Cole — the circum- 
stances of the loss and the amount of 
money in the bag. Even as Sir Dene 
spoke, the thought flashed over him 
that it could only have been taken by 
Tom — that no one else had had access 
to the room : and in his horror and fear 
lest such a disgrace on the name of 
Clanwaring should be published; he 


first of all enjoined the man to silence, 
and then strove to smooth the matter 
by saying it was possible the bag was 
not lost, but had been removed to the 
safer quarters of his own chamber up- 
stairs. Cole took his cue, and affected 
to believe that his Honor would there 
find it. The horse doctor was a keen 
man ; and some muttered words of Sir 
Dene’s, “What! has he done this in 
addition to the rest ! almost made 
him doubt whether suspicion might not 
be turning on Tom. However, it was 
not a business that he could presume to 
intermeddle with. Thanking the baro- 
net for the prescription. Cole said good 
night with the most unconscious look in 
the world. 

Then Sir Dene called Gander in, and 
bade him shut the door. “ When I 
went out of this parlor to the dining- 
room earlier in the evening — do you 
mind it. Gander ? ” began he. “ It was 
when you told me Cole had come up, 
and I said I could not see him. D’ye 
mind it, I ask ? ” 

“ Yes, Sir Dene.” 

“ I left Mr. Tom in this parlor. How 
long did he stay in it ? Did you notice 
him when he came out ? ” 

“ He didn’t come out this way at all, 
Sir Dene. He must have left it by the 
window here.” 

“ How d’ye know ? ” 

“ Well, sir, he was not in here when 
you came back again — I followed you in 
directly, if you remember, with the can- 
dles. And I’m sure he had not come 
out at the door while you were away. Sir 
Dene. If he had I mtfst ha’ seen him. 
Mr. Tom oftener goes out by this here 
glass door window nor any other way, 
when he’s a-wantiug to go straight out 
o’ doors.” 

Sir Dene paused. “ Who came into 
the room besides, while I was away from 
it?” 

“ Not a soul,” replied Gander. 

And that exactly accorded with Sir 
Dene’s own impression. As he had not 
shut the door of the dining-room, he 
thought he must have seen them if they 
did. Nevertheless, he hoped it was the 
contrary, and spoke accordingly in his 
mind’s exasperation. 

“ Somebody did, I know.” 

“ Somebody didn’t, Sir Dene,” re- 
turned Gander,’ with the familiarity of 


AN EVENTFUL EVENING. 


163 


an old servant. “ They couldn’t. I 
never was beyond sight o’ the door.” 

It was true. Gander’s pantry and Sir 
Dene’s door were within view of each 
other on opposite sides of the passage. 
It was simply impossible that any one 
could have entered the bay parlor during 
the short interval in question unseen by 
Gander. 

“ Did you see Mr. Tom when he came 
into it ? ” resumed Sir Dene — as if will- 
ing to put the extent of Gander’s sight 
to the test. 

“ I watched him in, sir. ’Twere just 
after Farmer Parker left. As Mr. Tom 
came down the passage, he asked me 
whether Sir Dene was in the hay parlor ; 
I said yes, and he went in. I could 
hear him and you talk together for half 
a minute. Sir Dene, and then you come 
out on’t. Mr. Tom he didn’t come out 
at all : he must ha’ went through the 
glass doors.” 

And with this conclusive evidence, 
what was Sir Dene Clanwaring to think 
but that Tom was the culprit. It was as 
clear as though they had seen him do it, 
reiterated the Lady Lydia. 

Such was the story told to Mr. Arde. 
In the impulse of the moment he took 
up the belief as warmly as they did, as- 
suming Tom could not be innocent, ex- 
cept by a miracle ; that he had been 
driven into crime at last. And though 
he regarded it with nearly as much hor- 
ror as Sir Dene — for was not Tom con- 
nected with him ? — he yet felt a large 
amount of pity. “ Turned out nearly 
penniless, J suppose ; and so the tempta- 
tion was too great,” thought the Squire 
to himself, as he went out of the pres- 
ence of Sir Dene. But this feeling of 
pity Lady Lydia unconsciously crushed. 

And yet, I can hardly think he’d do 
it 1 ” burst forth Mr. Arde, a revulsion 
of opinion setting in as he stood outside 
the front door, talking with her. 

My lady glanced round, making sure 
they were quite alone, and sank her voice 
to a whisper. 

You’d not say so, if you knew all. 
The other thing he has been guilty of is 
worse than that.” 

Worse than that ! ” 

“ At least — if not worse, it’s something 
very bad indeed of another nature. 
People estimate offences with different 
eyes, you know, Mr. Aide. 1 think theft 


might only have been expected from a 
man given to low tastes and low associ- 
ates as is Tom Clanwaring.” 

“ But what is the other thing that he 
has done ? ” resumed the Squire. “ Can’t 
you tell it me ? ” 

I cannot tell you, dear Mr. Arde. 
The probability is that you will hear of 
it before long — for I should think the 
neighborhood is sure to get hold of it j 
but Sir Dene has forbidden it to be spok- 
en of by any of us. My good son Jar- 
vis, too, has begged me to be silent for the 
young man’s sake. Ill as Tom Clanwar- 
ing has behaved, Jarvis is yet consider- 
ate for him.” 

Away went the Squire, the words 
burning a hole in his curiosity, and puz- 
zling him mightily. For he was no 
wiser than ever, you see, as to what had 
driven Tom from Beechhurst Dene. 

He must have turned out an awful 
scamp of some sort,” was his mental 
thought. 

Well ? — what have you learnt ? 
— what has led to his abrupt dismissal ? ” 
eagerly questioned Mrs. Arde, as her 
husband entered. Most excessively cu- 
rious on her own score, she had been 
waiting with impatience the result of 
his visit to the Dene. Mary, standing 
by, held her breath as she listened for 
the answer. 

“ I can’t come to the bottom of it,” 
said Mr. Arde ; “ neither Sir Dene nor 
my lady seems inclined to speak out. 
There has been a series of general mis- 
conduct, I fancy ; petty ill-doings one 
after another ; Lady Lydia says no one 
can imagine what they have had to put 
up with from him, and how forbearing 
they have been. But,” and Mr. Aide’s 
tones fell to something like fear — “ what- 
ever his petty offences might have been, 
he need not have capped them with a 
crime.” 

May’s trembling lips parted. A 
crime ! ” echoed Mrs. Arde. 

“ He went off with a bag of money 
belonging to Sir Dene. Stole it from 
the secretary.” 

“ No ! ” passionately cried May. 
“ That he never did.” 

Mr. Arde turned his eyes upon her in 
surprise. 

“ What are you frightened at, child ? 
It does not affect you. I called out No, 
just as you have done, until I heard 
the facts.” 


164 


DENE HOLLOW. 


“ And was this what he was dismissed 
for ? ’’ inquired Mrs. Arde. 

“ No, no ; did you not understand 
me ? This occurred after his dismissal 
— as he was going away. I tell you I 
can’t get at the truth of what he was 
sent away for,” continued Mr. Arde : 
“ Lady Lydia says it is too bad to be 
spoken of. I don’t think they’d have 
told me about the theft of the money 
either, but for a word my lady let drop ; 
and so I asked Sir Dene point-blank. 
But, mark you j though it has been 
disclosed to me, this theft — I am con- 
nected with the fellow, unfortunately, 
and that makes a difference — not a syl- 
lable of it must be breathed abroad. 
Lady Lydia, incensed though she has 
cause to be against Tom, begged me to 
bury it in silence, for his own sake. As 
if I should proclaim it ! The disgrace 
would reflect itself on me almost as 
much as on the Clanwarings.” 

Miss May metaphorically tossed her 
head, incipiently rebellious. “ It’s all 
of a piece,” ran her mental thoughts. 

A ‘ long series of petty ill-doings,’ 
finished off with something too bad to 
be spoken of, and a bag of money ! Qh 
the wicked slanderers ! They may just 
as well go and say that I had done it.” 

But that was destined to be an event- 
ful night in more ways than one, and 
there’s something else to be told of it. 
Somewhere about the hour that the 
money must have disappeared — that is, 
during the short interval Sir Dene was 
absent from the bay-parlor — a little 
earlier or a little later as might have 
been, Mary Barber went over on an 
errand to Beechhurst Dene. Neigh- 
bors in rural districts borrow house- 
hold trifles indiscriminately of one 
another : when no shops are within 
convenient reach, this is almost a mat- 
ter of necessity. Harebell Farm hap- 
pened to be out of a very insignificant 
commodity — lemons. Mr. Tillett, com- 
ing home in the course of the afternoon 
from attending the corn - market at 
Worcester, the first market of the New 
Year, told Mary Barber that he had 
invited some friends to spend the fol- 
lowing day at the farm, and particularly 
desired that a lemon pudding should be 
made. Vexed at her own forgetfulness, 
she made no demur, thinking she could 
borrow the lemons from Beechhurst 
Dene. Sometimes the Dene borrowed 


things of her. So at dusk, Mary Bar- 
ber, putting on a shawl and bonnet, 
went across the lane on her errand.. 
She had just entered the gate when a 
man came dashing down the path right 
upon her, and laid hold of her, as if for 
protection from some pursuing evil. 
Very considerably astonished was Mary 
Barber : and not the less so when she 
recognized the intruder through the 
dusk to be Kandy Black. Kandy in 
mortal fear. The man was completely 
unhinged : his face white, his hands 
shaking, his breath coming in gasps. 
In the moment’s abandonment he con- 
fessed the cause of this — which he most 
assuredly would not have done at a 
calmer time. He had just seen Kobert 
Owen. 

The assertion startled Mary Barber 
into nearly as much terror as his own. 
It was so long, too, now since anything 
of the kind had been talked of. Black, 
it appeared — at least this was his own 
account — was going to the Dene to try 
and get speech with Captain Clanwar- 
ing. He was about half-way down the 
path to the house when some man (as 
he at first took it to be) glided out from 
between the trees and stood facing him. 
The next moment. Black saw that it was 
Kobert Owen. Black turned tail and 
took flight in awful terror ; and so met 
Mary Barber. Mary Barber, listening^ 
this, looking at the gloomy path before 
her, the dark winter trees around her, 
decided to let the lemons be just then, 
and send somebody else for them by- 
and-by. 

They passed out at the gate together. 
Black sticking very close to her. 

She went back to her own gate ; he 
went too : it actually seemed as if the 
man dared not just then be without some 
companionship. He was getting better 
of his illness, but was very ailing still, and 
Mr. Priar had ordered him not to go out. 
Which order Black paid no manner of 
attention to. The carter’s boy at Hare- 
bell Farm, leaving work for the night, 
came through the Farm gate in his 
smock-frock, whistling. 

“ If ye’ll go along o’ me to the inn, 
and bring down a physic bottle as I 
wants took to Dr. Priar’s, I’ll give ye a 
sixpence, Ned Pound,” said Black. 
And Mary Barber could not help notic- 
ing how the man’s voice shook still. 

“ I’ll go and thank ye,” replied Ned 


AT SIR DENE’S SECRETAIRE. 


165 


Pound after a pause of doubt, as to 
whether so astoundingly munificent an 
offer could be real — for the boy had never 
had a sixpence of his own in his whole 
life. “ I say, what makes your teeth 
rattle so ? ” 

“ It’s this confounded cold night,” re- 
plied Black : “ enough to freeze one’s 
bones it is. Come along.” 

Mary Barber looked after them as 
they went up the lane. Black’s hand on 
the lad’s shoulder. The extreme terror, 
displayed by such a hardened man as 
Black, struck her, and always had struck 
her, as being marvellously strange. 

“ He didn’t dare go on by hisself,” 
thought she: ‘‘that physic bottle’s 
nought but a lame excuse. A whole 
sixpence to give ! — Ned Pound’ll be rich. 
And now — what should ha’ brought 
back the poor master again ? I’d 
thought he was laid.” 

What indeed ? But, in this one in- 
stance, Black’s sight and fears misled 
him. The figure he* had taken for an 
apparition was no other than one of flesh 
and blood — Major Fife’s. It will be re- 
membered that Sir Dene Clanwaring 
and Gander both noticed the striking 
resemblance that Major Fife bore to the 
late Robert Owen. 

It happened that Major Fife had 
come over from Worcester that after- 
noon to press his claims again on Jarvis 
Clanwaring. Totally declining to be 
put off any longer with vague promises, 
which Jarvis could alone give, the major, 
not caring in his own interests to pro- 
ceed to extremities, discussed the face 
of things as they walked about together 
amidst the winter trees, both of them 
smoking. To appeal to Sir Dene — as 
Major Fife half threatened to do, there 
and then — would not serve the cause, 
Jarvis assured him, but the contrary; 
most probably destroy all hope from that 
quarter for the future. • Jarvis offered 
to give him a legal undertaking to repay 
a portion of the money, if not «,11, by 
that day fortnight, the ISth of January. 
It was the best he could do. You can’t 
get blood from a stone. Captain Clan- 
waring was tolerably candid about the 
state of his affairs ; and the major, 
clearly seeing that there was no chance 
of making better terms, was fain to ac- 
cept these. W^hile Jarvis went in to 
write the document, the major, prefer- 


ring still to remain where he was and 
finish his tobacco, strolled in and out 
amongst the trees and down the path : 
and thus ensued the encounter with 
Black. The man’s extraordinary con- 
duct, evidently the result of terror, as- 
tonished Major Fife not a little. He 
mentioned it to Captain Clanwaring on 
his return with the paper. The captain 
fancied by the description given that 
the intruder must have been Randy 
Black. But his behavior he could not 
account for. Neither then nor later did 
it come to Jarvis Clanwaring’s knowl- 
edge that Major Fife bore a resemblance 
to the deceased man of whom he had 
often heard — Robert Owen, of Harebell 
Farm. Major Fife at once departed in 
the gig ; which James the groom had 
been taking charge of at the front en- 
trance. 

And as Ned Pound was coming down 
Harebell Lane with the physic bottle 
and the promised sixpence, he met Cap- 
tain Clanwaring striding up to the 
Trailing Indian. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

AT SIR dene’s secretaire. 

In a day or two there arrived 'two 
letters from Tom Clanwaring, dated 
Bristol. Very good and proper and 
nice letters, both of them. The one, 
written to Mr Arde, expressed his regret 
that he had been obliged to leave with- 
out saying farewell to himself and Mrs. 
Arde, but that he had not liked to in- 
trude upon, them when they were en- 
gaged with tl. ;ir dinner-guests. It 
alluded to his abrupt dismissal, stated 
that he knew not the cause of it, and 
was unconscious of any offence of liis 
that could have led to it, unless it was 
the quarrel with Captain Clanwaring in 
the afternoon, when he confessed that 
he had allowed himself to fall into un- 
due passion. Not a word did it breathe 
of any sense of injustice, or cast the 
slightest reflection upon man, woman, 
or child : the sweetness of Tom Clan- 
waring’s nature was never more uncon- 
sciously displayed than in that farewell 
letter. Squire Arde read it over once, 
and then began it again. 

The other letter was to Sir Dene. 


106 


DENE HOLLOW. 


Tom earnestly begged his grandfather 
to believe that he had not consciously 
been guilty of any offence towards him, 
or been willingly ungrateful. Nothing, 
he said, could be further from his 
thoughts. His greatest prayer and 
hope now was that Sir Dene should 
sometime be convinced of this ; would 
see how much he had always loved him, 
how he had done his best to serve him, 
and how bitterly he was feeling the 
separation. Tom added some direc- 
tions in the last page as to certain 
matters connected with the business 
of the estate, so that trouble might be 
saved to those who should succeed him 
in its management. It was a long let- 
ter, every word of it breathing the sen- 
timents of a kindly and honest gentle- 
man, and of the affection he felt for his 
home and his grandfather. 

Too kindly, too honest to be allowed 
to fall under the eye of Sir Dene. Lady 
Lydia — who had taken the precaution 
to break the seal and skim the contents 
— might put no belief in the good faith 
of the letter ; but she was by no means 
sure it might not act so far on the old 
man's tender feelings as to induce him 
to recall Tom. So she dropped it into 
the fire and held her tongue about its 
arrival. The opening of other people’s 
letters was a grave offence in those days, 
not only against the code of honor : but 
wlm observed any kind of code to the 
humble dependenr, Tom- Clan waring ? 

And Sir Dene never knew that he 
had written. 

Now Squire Arde possessed a con- 
science. Before that letter arrived, he 
had begun rather to veer round to Tom 
again and doubt whether he had really 
been guilty of any grave offence ; the 
letter only served to increase the feel- 
ing and the doubt. He could not al- 
ways forget that poor Tom, so hardly 
used among them, was the nephew of 
his 'dead wife ; and he suddenly deter- 
mined to go to Bristol and see him. It 
was understood that Tom was waiting 
at Bristol, according to instructions re- 
ceived from Ireland, until some agricul- 
tural implements should be ready, that 
he was to take over with him. Saying 
nothing to anybody, except his wife — 
and to her only that business called 
him away for a day or two — Squire 
Arde sent his servant to Worcester to 


engage a place in the Bristol mail, and 
departed himself the same night for the 
latter city, as Tom had previously done. 

He saw Tom. He listened to his ver- 
sion of matters (given in answer to au- 
thoritative questioning), of what his 
treatment had been at Beechhurst 
Dene, especially in the past week j 
and Mr. Arde came to the conclusion 
that Tom had been more sinned against 
than sinning. But when he came to 
speak of some grave offence or crime, 
such as Lady Lydia had hinted at, but 
would not explain, Tom declared she 
must have been mistaken, for he had 
committed none. Mr. Arde, thinking 
it impossible she could have been so far 
mistaken, pressed the point; but Tom 
adhered to what he said. 

‘‘ It does not matter,” he lightly ob- 
served in his good-natured way. “ I 
don’t claim to be better than other peo- 
ple, sir.” He had never called Mr. 
Arde uncle ; ” had not been taught to 
do so. It might have been different 
had his own aunt, Mr. Arde’s first wife, 
lived. The last thing Mr. Arde spoke 
of was the money. 

By the way,” began he in a care- 
less tone, “ there has been a loss at the 
Dene since you left : or, rather, the eve- 
ning you were leaving. A bag of 
money — forty-five pounds I am told it 
contained — that Sir Dene put into his 
secretary, disappeared in a mysterious 
manner.” 

‘‘ Was it the bag I saw him put in ? ” 
cried Tom, raising his honest eyes fear- 
lessly to the Squire’s face. “Wha4 a 
strange thing ! It can’t be lost.” 

“Yes, I believe it was the same bag. 
Sir Dene said something about your 
having been present when he put it up. 
It seems he left the key in the lock, and 
was absent from the room three or four 
minutes ; not more. During that time 
the bag disappeared.” 

“ Who went into the room ? ” 

“ There it is. No one went in, save 
Sir Dene and Gander. They did not 
see you come out, either.” 

“ I Oh, I went out by the glass 
doors. The truth is, I was so grieved 
at Sir Dene’s refusing to hear a word of 
what I wanted to say, that as he went 
out one way, I turned out the other to 
walk my vexation off.” 

“Well, they both declare that no one 


167 


/ ^ - 

AT SIR DENE’ 

whatever went into the room. Sir 
Dene What now ? ’’ 

A sudden light, as of awakened re- 
membrance, shone in Tom Clanwaring’s 
eyes. “ Halloa ! ” he exclaimed, “ I 
saw And there he stopped short. 

Saw what ? ” asked Mr. Arde. 

“ No,” said Tom, I’ll say no more. 
The fact is, I thought I remembered to 
have seen somebody go into the room : 
^but perhaps — perhaps I was mistaken. 
I daresay I was mistaken.” 

“ Go in by which door ? ” 

“ No, sir ; I’ll say no more.” 

‘‘ You ought to say. The money was 
stolen.” 

I never will, sir. I’d not say it if I 
were certain. No, not though I had 
seen it taken : which I certainly did 
not. Let people fight their own bat- 
tles.” 

“ And suppose they were to suspect 
you of taking it ? ” 

Tom burst into a laugh. “ Suspect 
me of taking money ! Not they. They 
know me better than that, all of them.” 

“ Suppose they were to accuse you of 
it?” 

“ Accuse me to whom, sir ? Not to 
Sir Dene : it would be waste of trouble. 
He knows that his money would be as 
safe with me as it is with him. I am 
his grandson, Mr. Arde.” 

Mr. Arde looked at the open counte- 
nance, at the blue eyes, so full of earnest 
truth, and he mentally saw that whoever 
else had stolen the money, Tom had not. 

“ Were it told to you that you had 
been accused of this thing, you would 
surely speak, Tom Clan waring I ” 

“ I don’t think I should,” was Tom’s 
answer. “ I’d rather do a man a good 
turn than a bad one, be he friend or en- 
emy. That is the only safe way to get 
on pleasantly in this life. It all comes 
home to us, sir. If we sow flowers, we 
are repaid by the perfume : if we plant 
nettles, they must spring up and sting 
ns. I don’t believe a man ever did the 
smallest kindness, but Jt was in some 
way returned to him ; feel sure that 
for every injury a man or woman de- 
signedlyinflicts on others, a worse evil is 
returned Mrs. Owen taught me these 
truths when I was a little child, and I 
have seen them exemplified scores of 
times since.” 

But, though Mr. Arde felt at rest on 


S SECRETAIRE. 

the score of Tom’s misconduct, he could 
not effect his return to the Dene. The 
edict of banishment was gone forth, and 
it might not be revoked. Neither did 
Mr. Arde see any urgent reason why it 
should be. He considered that some ex- 
perience of the world might be of benefit 
to Tom rather than the contrary : and in- 
stead of telling Tom he would help him to 
return, he urged him not to “ kick ” 
against the new place in Ireland, but to 
do his best and make himself useful in it. 
Things might brighten, he observed ; 
they generally did by dint of a little pa- 
tience and perseverance. Tom replied 
that he had no intention of kicking 
against it : he was turned adrift, and it 
appeared Hobsoc^s^hoice — go there, or 
starve. T'"';! 

“ No need to starve,” retorted the 
Squire ; “ you’ve got health and strength 
to work, and a good share of brains. 
There’s not a man in England, or Ireland 
either, knows land better than you do, 
Tom. And look here : I’ve brought a 
bit of money for you.” 

It was a hundred pounds that he took 
from his pocket — to Tom’s intense aston- 
ishment. The Squire explained. He 
bad been putting it by for him bit by bit 
ever since Tom was a child. Foreseeing 
perhaps that Beechhurst Dene might not 
be a home for him always, that the time 
might come when he would be thrown 
upon his own resources, Mr. Arde, recog- 
nizing that Tom had some kind of claim 
upon him, put by this money by degrees 
for the rainy day. Had he found Tom to 
be worthless he would have kept it in his 
pocket : hence his journey of enquiry to 
Bristol. 

Put it safely up, Tom, and take care 
of it. Don’t use it unless you really re- 
quire it. Should you never get your re- 
call to Beechhurst Dene, it may be use- 
ful to you.” 

Tom thanked him with all his. heart; 
his earnest eyes, his expressive face, be- 
traying his gratitude better than words 
could do it. Throughout his life he had 
been singularly responsive to kindness : 
probably from the little of it that was 
shown him. 

On the morning following this, after 
Mr. Arde had quitted Bristol, Tom re- 
ceived a letter from Cole the farrier. 
Saying that he had not been able to get 
his address before, and now only surrep- 


168 


DENE HOLLOW. 




titiously through Gander’s good-nature, 
he wrote to tell Tom that he had seen 
some one (whom he mentioned), stand- 
ing at the open secretaire that evening, 
just at the time the money must have 
been taken : and that person was no 
doubt the thief. The reasod^of Cole’s 
writing this was, that a hint had reached 
him, throwing some suspicion on Tom 
Clanwaring — tiiough, in his delicacy he 
did not expressly say so. Tom immedi- 
ately sent the following letter back to 
Cole 

Thank you for writing to me, my 
good fellow : your motive was a right 
one, and I think I discern the prompting 
cause. But say no more to any one. 
You may be mistakenl Keep silence. 
Even if you had joroq/* as to who it was 
took the money — which you have not — 
there may be private reasons whj’- it 
should not be told abroad. As to me — 
for, what I conclude is, that you have 
heard my name brought in — mj’ back is 
broad enough to bear anything put upon 
it by idle report : and you must know, 
and I know, that no one whom I care 
for, or who cares for me, would suspect 
me of such a thing. Sir Dene knows 
me better, and so do others. Be silent. 
1 rely upon you to be so. Let people 
fight out their own battles : it is no 
affair of yours ; I do not intend to make 
it mine. Good luck to you. Cole, in all 
ways. Sincerely yours, T. C.” 

Tom Clanwaring was right. Not for 
long did any one who knew him continue 
the suspicion as to the money. A com- 
plete revulsion of feeling set in with Sir 
Dene : and he called himself names for 
having allowed his mind to entertain 
such a suspicion for a moment. Even 
Lady Lydia, upon sober reflection, grew 
to think that it could not have been 
Tom — for nothing in his past life had 
led her to suppose he would descend to 
be a thief Make the worst of him, and 
of the sins she had been fond of attrib- 
.uting to him, he would scarcely sink so 
low as that. No. Had there been 
nothing else against Tom, he might 
have been recalled instanter. But there 
was. Not to speak of those general 
petty sins, there was that other grave 
charge, not easily refuted. It was that 
that troubled Sir Dene : he had always 


believed Tom to be as morally good a 
man as his father Geoffry was : and 
the discovery to Sir Dene was bitter. 
No chance of that being refuted yet 
awhile : if it ever was, or could be. 

It must be remarked that Lady Lydia 
did at first believe Tom had taken the 
money. In the teeth of the one great 
assumed fact — that only he had been in 
the room — she could not well think 
otherwise. The possibility that any one 
else had stolen in through the glass 
doors, did not then occur to her or to Sir 
Dene. But it was the theory taken up 
now : though whether she would have 
arrived at it of her own accord is un- 
certain. 

On the Tuesday, the day following 
Mr. Arde’s departure for Bristol, Mrs. 
Arde and Mary Barber met accidentally 
in Dene Hollow, the latter with a big 
market-basket in her hand. The two 
invariably held a gossip together when 
they met : and on this occasion Mrs. 
Arde (who considered Tom Clanwaring 
belonged to Mary Barber at least as 
much as to anybody else) chose to 
ignore her husband’s injunction to 
secrecy, and whispered to her in confi- 
dence the story of Tom’s misdoings : 
that is, of the one crowning act of them. 
Mary Barber’s hard face took a harder 
hue in her astonishment; her grey eyes 
fixed themselves with a stare on Mrs. 
Arde’s. 

“ Steal a bag o’ money ! You "don’t 
believe it of him ! ” she continued 
fiercely and abruptly. 

“ But I can’t help believing it, im- 
possible though it seems that he' could 
do such a thing,” returned Mrs. Arde. 
“ There was no one else near the room, 
you see.” 

“ He went out at the glass doors, did 
he ? ” quietly observed Mary ‘Barber. 

They say so.” 

“ Which proves he must have left ’em 
undone, for they don’t fasten from 
the outside,” reasoned Mary Barber. 
“ What was to prevent somebody else 
from going in and helping theirselves to 
the monej’’ ? ” 

Mrs. Arde paused : the notion had not 
struck her. They were not altogether 
conjurors in those parts : besides, the 
accusation of Tom, assumed to be a cer- 
tainty, had kept suspicion from being 
directed to other quarters. 


AT SIR DENE’S SECRETAIRE. 


169 


“ I fancy there could not have been 
time for anj’" one else to get in,” said 
Mrs. Arde, revolving matters. 

“ A thing like that’s soon done — you 
must know it is, ma’am. Thieves be 
deft o’ fingers.” 

“ Of course it might be so,” spoke 
the lady slowly. “ But — was any ill- 
character likely to be close up at the 
house at that hour ? ” 

“ There’s tramps and ill-folk about 
always at dusk, a-watching what they 
can put their hands on,’^ said Mary 
Barber. “ A couple o’ gipsies, big strong 
men too, was at our house o’ Saturday, 
a-vvanting to sell iron skewers. One on 
’em might get up to the Dene from 
Harebell Lane quite easy. And if 
none 6’ the servants was on the look out, 
why he ” 

The woman stopped. Stopped as if 
a shot had taken her. There had 
flashed into her memory one whom she 
saw flying from the house at dusk on 
Saturda}' ; flying in terror. Not a 
tramp ; but a man who would put his 
hand to worse deeds, if report might be 
trusted, than any tramp in the three 
kingdoms. 

“ What time was it exactly that this 
here theft happened? Do ye know, 
ma^am ? ” she presently resumed. 

“ I don’t know exactly. Some time 
between four and five. Nearer five, I 
should think, for it was quite dusk. 
Why do you ask ? ” 

“ Well I — I was a wondering,” re- 
turned Mary Barber evasively, saying 
no more in her prudent caution. She 
wanted time to reflect first. 

“ Any way, Mrs. Arde, don’t you go 
on a-suspecting IMr. Tom Clanwaring,” 
were her parting words, spoken emphati- 
cally. “ He’d no more touch what’s not 
his own, than you or me would. He’s^ 
a gentleman to his fingers’ ends; ay, 
and a right noble one. Warn’t their 
sending of him olf to that Irish Botany 
Bay enough for ’em, but they must bring 
up this ? ” 

Mrs. Arde continued her way. Mary 
Barber put her back against the railings 
to think. It happened to be in that part 
of the Hollow where her poor mother’s 
cottage had stood : her feet were press- 
ing what might once have been the 
kitchen floor, on which she had played 
in infancy. The cottage was gone, and 


her mother was gone, so long ago now 
that it’s very remembrance was growing 
dim : and she and Sir Dene Clanwaring 
were drawing nearer and nearer to that 
other world, to which so many connected 
with this history, and younger than they 
were, had passed on before them. 

Not that any of these thoughts were 
in Mary Barber’s mind then : it was 
otherwise occupied. What she wanted 
to recall was, the precise time at which 
she had gone over to the Dene on Sat- 
urday night. And, try as she would, 
she could not. All she was sure of was 
that it was dusk ; not dark : but she had 
not taken note of the time. The cuckoo 
clock (that had passed with the other 
things into Mr. Tillett’s possession from 
William Owen) was getting old like her- 
self, out of order often. On Saturday it 
had stood still all day. 

The more she reflected on it, the 
stronger grew her conviction that the 
criminal was Black. Black, and nobody 
else. One thought led to another. She 
began to doubt whether Black’s state of 
terror had not arisen from a fear that he 
was being pursued ; that his assertion 
of having seen the apparition of Robert 
Owen, was all an invention to account 
for the fear. And this was the more 
likely from the fact that some years had 
elapsed since any report of the ghost 
had been raised : Mary Barber had. been 
living in the agreeable assurance that 
time had “ laid ” it. Turning back, for 
she had been on her way to Hurst Leet, 
she went straight in at the front gates 
of Beechhurst Dene. 

“It’s right* that they should know I 
saw Black where I did,” ran her 
thoughts, “ and specially if any on ’em 
be a really accusing Mr. Tom. Not as 
I believe that. Black, he’s a nasty one 
to make a enemy of: so I’ll just say I 
see him and no more. Let Sir Dene 
and them do what they like in it.” 

Considerably astonished was Jones 
the footman, when he flung open the 
door of the grand entrance, to find no- 
body at it but Mary Barber. The 
woman knew proper manners as well as 
Jones did, perhaps better, and apologiz- 
ed for not going round to the side, on 
the score of her time being “ precious ” 
that morning. But she did not get to 
see Sir Dene : he was very poorly Jones 
said, and not up yet : would Lady 


170 


DENE HOLLOW. 


Lydia do ? Mary Barber considered, 
and then saying that my lady would do, 
put her basket down. But she would 
rather have seen Sir Dene. So she was 
shown into the library to my lady’s 
presence, and to that of her two sons, 
who happened to be with her. My 
lady’s curiosity was a little raised, as to 
what the woman could want — she had 
heard her come to the grand entrance. 
She sat near the window, working at 
some silk patchwork for bed furniture : 
Jarvis and Otto were talking together 
by the mantlepiece. 

Standing, for she was not asked to 
sit, Mary Barber told what she had 
come to tell. Barely had she finished 
when Otto Clanwaring brought down 
his hand on the table with emphasis, as 
he turned to his mother and brother. 

“ That’s it. There’s the clue.’ I told 
you from the first what a shameful 
wrong on Tom it was, to suspect him. 
And you accuse Bandy Black ! ” he 
added, approaching Mary Barber. 

“ Sir, I accuse nobody. Band}’; 
Black’s one that I’d not like to accuse 
myself — he might be for drownding me 
in return — as perhaps he drownded 
somebody else, years agone. i only tell 
you where I see him o’ Saturday evening 
— a coming out o’ the back grounds here 
in a pucker o’ fear. He give me a- 
plausible cause for his fright — which 
has nothing to do with it, and don’t 
matter : it mightn’t ha’ been true. I 
couldn’t keep this back on my con- 
science, hearing that you suspected Mr. 
Ikjm Clanwaring.” 

“ / never did,” spoke Otto. “ It was 
too ridiculously absurd to those who 
knew him.” 

“ Both to them as knew him and to 
them as didn’t,” amended Mary Barber. 
But at this moment Captain Clanwar- 
ing stepped forward, pushing aside his 
brother. 

“We are much obliged to you of 
course, Mrs. Barber, for this informa- 
tion,” said he in his pleasantest tones — 
and the captain’s could be soft and 
pleasant when he chose to make them 
so. “ It is very good of you to come. 
But now — will you add to the obligation 
by keeping this doubt of Bandy Black 
to yourself, at least until it shall have 
been enquired into? The fact is,” he 
added, meeting the woman’s questioning 


eyes, and speaking slowly, as if with 
unwilling reluctance, “ that my suspi- 
cions have been directed to a different 
quarter.” 

“ Do you mean to Mr. Tom ? ” inde- 
pendently demanded Mary Barber. 

“Oh dear no. We are sure it was 
not he.” And as the positive words fell 
from Jarvis’s lips, Otto, put into the 
background, looked hard at his brother. 

“ Well, Captain Clanwaring, as to 
keeping my doubts of Black to myself. 
I’ll readily promise you that, for it’s 
just what I mean to do,” answered 
Mary Barber. “ I don’t say the man 
was guilty : he might not ha’ been 
anigh Sir Dene’s window : I must leave 
you to be the judge o’ that. Seeing 
him where I did, a rushing pell-mell 
down the path, in a mortal fright, it was 
my duty to let you know on’t. That’s 
all.” 

“ But — how did he account for this 
state of fear himself ? ” interrupted 
Otto. “ Surely you may tell, Mrs. 
Barber.” 

“ Well, Mr. Otto, what he told me 
was, that he had seen something to 
frighten him amid the trees,” she re- 
joined after a slight pause. “ As I sa}^ 
it might ha’ been just an invention of 
his own. Good day to you, my lady ; 
good day to you, sirs.” 

Lady Lydia nodded in reply to the 
salutation : she had not spoken one 
word throughout the interview. Otto 
civilly went to the front door with Mary 
Barber, and she made him a curtsey as 
she took up her basket and departed. 
Short though the interval was before 
Otto returned to the library, he found 
his mother and Jarvis talking fast, 
almost disputing. On my lady’s mind 
there rested not a doubt that the 
offender was Black : her son w’ould not 
admit it. 

“ This must be kept from everybody, 
Otto,” spoke Jarvis, wheeling round on 
his brother. “From Sir Dene especial- 
ly.” 

“ And why ? ” asked Otto honestly. 
“ I should take it to Sir Dene at once, 
and clear Tom.” 

“ Tom shall be cleared with him so 
far, never fear. In fact. Sir Dene’s own 
mind has cleared him already. Look 
here, Otto : I must beg of you not to 
interfere in this. It is essential to me — 


BACK FROM BRISTOL. 


171 


I have been telling Lady Lydia so — not 
to exasperate Black justTiow. The fact 
is/’ added Jarvis, mentally anathematiz- 
ing his brother’s straight-forward turn 
of mind that obliged the explanation, 

I owe Black money, and can’t pay 
him ; and I believe he’d do me an ill 
turn were the opportunity afforded him. 
If we accuse him of this, it would bring 
on an inconvenient climax for me, for 
he’d be safe to come off to Sir Dene 
with the debt. I wish the devil had all 
money ! ” 

“ What do you owe money for to 
Black ? ” asked Otto in some slight 
wonder. 

“ Tobacco,” shortly answered Jarvis. 

A tough score. Been accumulating 
for ages.” 

Otto knitted his brow. In his heart 
of hearts he despised his spendthrift 
elder brother. It might be detected in 
his voice as he spoke. 

It is no just cause for the informa- 
tion, that this woman has given us, 
being withheld from Sir Dene.” 

That’s only cause the first, and 
personal to myself,” resumed Jarvis. 
“ Tliere is another reason, and a weight- 
ier one. I don’t believe Black had any- 
thing to do with taking the bag. I 
suspect some one else — you heard me 
say so to the woman — and I want to 
follow up the suspicion privately# Ac- 
cuse Black wrongfiilly, and he is sure to 
make a row over it, and my efforts will 
be defeated.” 

But who is it that you suspect, Jar- 
vis ? ” cried Lady Lydia impatiently. 
And the barrister’s eyes were asking 
tlie same question. 

“ J ust at present I cannot tell you, 
from the same motive. Be content to 
leave it with me for a little while, 
mother — and I’ll do my best to unravel 
it. It is a man you would never think 
of — nor Otto either. Of course I may 
be mistaken ; but I’ve got just a little 
clue, and 1 want to follow it up. It 
will take time to do it — and not a word 
must be said. As to Black, it was cer- 
tainly not he. Bad as the man’s char- 
acter is, in this I could almost answer 
for his innocence. Accuse him wrong- 
fully, and his anger would know no 
bounds. He’d come straight off to Sir 
Dene in revenge and tell of the heaps 
of tobacco I’ve had, and the long 


amount I owe for it. There’s brandy 
as well. Sir Dene — you know the aw- 
ful fuss he makes about our keeping 
clear of debt round about here — he is 
put out with me already, as it is : and 
he might just send me adrift as he .has 
sent Tom. On my honor I have reason 
to believe it was not Black : and I ask 
you, as a favor to myself, Otto, to bury 
what the woman has said in silence.” 

That Captain Clanwaring was terri- 
bly in earnest in this request ; that he 
was moved almost to agitation in put- 
ting it, both his hearers saw. My lady 
heartily gave in to it without further 
question, and told him it should drop. 
Otto tacitly did the same, mentally 
washing his bauds of the affair alto- 
gether. It was nothing to him indi- 
vidually : and at the end of the week 
he was going back to his work in Lon- 
don. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

BACK FROM BRISTOL. 

Pacing the two rooms with slow and 
measured steps, from the bed-chamber 
to the sitting-room, from the sitting- 
room to the bed-chamber, his air not 
only that of a man pre-occupied with 
his own thoughts, but as if utterly 
weary of this life, went Sir Dene Clan- 
waring. Time was telling on him. 
Life and its events were telling on 
him. Is it true thatj according as our 
course has been smooth and easy, im- 
posing no check on our own imperious 
will and pleasure, so will a period , of 
days more or less dark, more or less 
short, set in before life shall finally 
close ? It had certainly b.een the case 
with Sir Dene Clanwaring. 

That he had felt his wife’s death 
years ago, and his favorite son Geoffry’s 
death close upon it, as keenly as might 
be, was indisputable. But these events 
are of a cla^s that we cannot avert ; 
they come direct from God : we recog- 
nise them as such, and the wounds 
heal again. With these two exceptions 
Sir Dene’s life had been altogether one of 
prosperity and enjoyment. He reign- 
ed supreme in his own neighborhood ; 
he took his pleasure abroad at will, in 
the metropolis or elsewhere ; he had 
an ample income ; no trouble disturbed 


172 


DENE HOLLOW. 


him. And this desirable state of things 
continued until he was past his seven- 
tieth year. If ever and anon at odd 
moments a thorn pricked his conscience 
touching that old atfair connected with 
the widow Barber, it soon disappeared 
again. But, almost in proportion to 
the extreme ease of his long life, so 
had been the tormenting discomfort of 
the past year or two. 

The greater portion of Sir Dene’s 
love had been concentrated on his 
grand - daughter, Margaret, the eldest 
child and only daughter of his eldest 
son. In her earlier years, when she 
was not of strong health, and it had 
appeared a doubt whether she would be 
reared, the physicians had recommended 
that she should live always in country 
air ; and therefore Beechhurst Dene be- 
came nearly entirely her home. She 
was a fair, gentle girl, merrj^ of spirit, 
tender of heart, a favorite with all. 
How deeply Sir Dene grew to love her, 
he was perhaps not conscious of, him- 
self, until all was over. Tom was very 
dear to him, but not as dear as Mar- 
garet. As a rule, men never experience 
the same fondness for boys that they do 
for girls. It was Margaret who made 
Sir Dene’s home like one ever shining 
beam of sunlight : he grew at last not 
to care to leave it, because she was 
there. In age there w^as not much dif- 
ference between hers and Tom’s ; she 
being some few months the younger. 

The day of the end was a day in 
January, two years ago this very month, 
when she w^as in her tw^enty-second year. 
Sir Dene was recalling it all as he paced 
the carpet. He was busy in his bay- 
parlor with Mr. Tillett, who had come 
over from Harebell Farm to pay his 
rent, when Margaret put her bright 
face inside the door to disturb them. 
She wore a blue velvet gipsy hat, and 
her over-dress was of soft blue cashmere 
with ermine fur about it. 

“ We are going, grandpapa,” she 
said. “ Good-bye.” 

“Good-bye, my darling,” responded 
Sir Dene ; fondlj^ kissing the smiling 
face. “ Don’t stay out too long.” 

“We shall only go there and back, 
grandpapa.” 

A young girl of sixteen, Charlotte 
Scrope, was visiting at Beechhurst 
Dene at the time, and Margaret was 
going to drive her as far as Henwick 


to see her governess — for in that healthy 
suburb of Worcester, Miss Scrope went 
to school : a matter of two miles or sc 
from Beechhurst Dene. It was not the 
custom for ladies to ride on horseback 
then; the few who did were called 
masculine women ; but they sometimes 
drove a chaise or gig in the country 
for convenience sake. It was a fine, 
clear morning, the roads frosty, wuth 
bits of ice here and there ; and as the 
pony carriage took its way put of 
Beechhurst Dene, Margaret driving, 
and a mounted groom behind them. 
Gander, watching at the hall door, said 
to himself they’d have a nice morning 
of it. 

A nice morning ! In the field skirt- 
ing Dene Hollow, the field that had 
once been the widow Barber’s, Sir 
Dene’s team was out, ploughing. Tom 
Clan waring, riding through it on horse- 
back, halted to say something to the 
ploughman. As the man, whose face 
was towards the road, raised his head 
to answer, his words faltered on his 
tongue, and his eyes dilated. 

“ Hullo ! What’ s up ? Look out 
yonder, sir ! ” 

. Tom turned, and was just in time to 
see the pony-carriage racing away as if 
flying for its life. Just in time to see 
some one jump from it, and fall in the 
road. ,^e was off his horse, had leaped 
the railings, and was up with Margaret 
— for she it was who had jumped — al- 
most as quickl3^ 

She' lay still in her blue garments, 
her lifeless face white as snow. Tom 
raised her in his arms, but the head fell : 
fell as he had never seen a head fall in 
this world. Afraid, he dared not think 
of what, he knelt down and let the poor 
head rest upon him ; and, lifting his 
own white face, shouted out to the 
ploughman to mount his horse and gal- 
lop to the Dene. 

The pony stopped presently of its 
own accord. Charlotte Scrope, who had 
sat still, was neither injured nor (she 
acknowledged) much frightened. The 
groom, leading the pony back again, the 
jmung lady still in her seat in the little 
carriage, said he could not imagine 
what had frightened the pony, that it 
should have put down its ears, and 
backed all of a sudden, and then, giving 
a leap, sprung off at a gallop. 

“ I cannot think why Margaret 


BACK FROM BRISTOL. 


173 


should have been so frightened as to 
jump out,” cried Miss Scrope. “ Has 
she fainted, Mr. Clanwaring ? ” 

Alas ! as the reader has foreseen, it 
was worse than fainting. Margaret 
Clanwaring was dead. Her neck was 
broken. But there were two things 
that would remain, and did remain, a 
marvel on thinking minds : why, as 
little Charlotte Scrope put it, she should 
have been so frightened as to jump out 
at all: and why, jumping from that 
low carriage, her neck should have 
broken. Mr. Priar talked in rather a 
learned manner, giving suppositions : 
that the head must have struck here or 
struck there : but people wondered, for 
all that. 

Sir Dene came speeding down from 
Beechhurst Dene with the rest : he 
could run still, for all his more than 
s^yenty years. The first thing that 
particularly caught his eye, was the 
strangely piteous aspect of Tom's face. 
It served to startle him. 

“ She’s not hurt much, is she Tom ? ” 

“ I — I — better not disturb her, sir ; 
please,” was Tom’s distressed answer. 
‘‘ We must get something flat to lie her 
upon.” 

Seven days afterwards, as Sir Dene 
Clanwaring stood over her grave in 
Hurst Leet churchyard, the thought 
that had been making itself more 
or less heard all the week, came rush- 
ing full upon him with overwhelm- 
ing force. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, 
read the clergyman. Ay : but Sir Dene 
surely saw^, and took home to him, the 
one great, indisputable fact, indisputable 
to bis conscience, that the curse of ret- 
ribution lay on the road. Dene Hollow ; 
and that this culminating punishment 
had come direct from God. The sudden 
cutting off of this favorite and most 
beautiful flower, who had become the 
^best solace of his declining life, was 
only the righteous judgment of Heaven. 
Just as ISIary Barber, when consigning 
her poor oppressed mother to the grave : 
in the same churchyard, had felt a sure 
and certain conviction that nothing but 
a curse could lie on the fine new road 
which had sent the aged woman to that 
grave befope her time, which had been 
made, as she at times expressed it, out 
of her blood and tears ; so did the con- 
viction of bis mistake and folly and sin 


lay hold on Sir Dene as he stood over 
Margaret’s. It was the retribution 
coming home to him, he mentally said ; 
the curse working itself out. 

From that hour Sir Dene Clanwaring 
was a changed man. The pleasantness 
in his days seemed to have dried up ; 
all their sweet apples had turned to 
bitterness. Instead of enjoying life 
carelessly, looking not beyond it, he be- 
gan to see how very near, in the course 
of nature, his own grave must be draw- 
ing : he began to realize that he had 
not, in this short world, been living for, 
or thinking much of, the eternal one 
beyond. A kind of shadow, something 
like that which w^as reported to lie on 
Dene Hollow, lay on his own heart per- 
petually ; the shadow of a vast sorrow. 
Sir Dene saw quite well that it wmuld 
lie on his life to the end. The time 
went on. Instead of shaking off petty 
cares and annoyances as of jore, they 
clung to him and told upon him in an 
almost unnatural degree. There were 
hours still when he seemed to be full of 
life and animation, to enjoy the social 
intercourse with his family as much as 
ever ; but on the other hand there were 
times of depression, when he could 
truly say the evil days had come and he 
found no pleasure in them. 

Such an hour was this. Pacing his 
carpet with heavy and lagging tread. 
Sir Dene was dwelling on the two great 
sources at present embittering his life, 
the one a thing of the past, the other 
very recent — Margaret’s death, and Tom 
Clanwaring’s base ingratitude. He 
could not have believed that he should 
feel the departure of Tom as keenly as 
he was feeling it, or have wished him 
back again so ardently. We never 
know* the worth of a thing until we 
have lost it. Had Tom come back now, 
and thrown himself at Sir Dene’s feet' 
in all humility to confess bis sin, and 
said, “ Grandfather forgive me,” Sir 
Dene would have read him a lecture, 
and stormed a bit, and then hugged 
Tom to him in very happiness. The 
sin, be it always understood by the 
reader, was that one Tom had been un- 
consciously accused of in conjunction 
with the young lady at the Trailing 
Indian. No other rested on the mind 
of Sir Dene. 

It is a bitter trial to be deceived in 


174 


DENE HOLLOW. 


one whom we wholly trust. Sir Dene 
had trusted Tom — had believed him to 
be of conduct good and honorable — and 
the awakening brought very sharp pain. 
Loose conduct was not thought over- 
much of in those days, by Sir Dene, or 
by anybody else. It was not that in 
itself; it was the deception Tom had 
practised on him : been very black 
when he had appeared to be wholly 
white. If Tom had deceived him in 
one point, he had perhaps in others : at 
any rate, instead of being a young man 
of honor, open and candid and upright 
as the day, he must have been a very 
sly one, argued Sir Dene. And never 
to have written ! Five days now since 
Tom’s departure, and not a line from 
him. What though he had turned him 
out with harsh words of anger, Tom 
ought to have allowed for the passion, 
and condoned it : he was a young man, 
his grandfather an old one. Waiting 
at Bristol, nothing to do with his time 
there, and yet he could not write one 
word to the poor old man who had rear- 
ed and loved him ! Had Sir Dene been 
told that Tom had written, written a 
gentle loving letter, and that my lady 
suppressed it, he had probably turned 
her. out in his fury. And there he was, 
telling over Tom’s sins and ingratitude 
as he paced his carpet, and lashing him- 
self into a state of rage about it all, 
when Squire Arde was shown in, on 
his return from Bristol. 

“ Tom did not take that bag of 
money. Sir Dene,” said the Squire im- 
pulsively, after explaining in two or 
three words where he had been to, and 
that he had seen Tom. 

“ No, that he did not,” was the some- 
what unexpected but emphatic answer 
of Sir Dene. “ I was enraged against 
him at the time, Arde, or I should never 
have thought it. Mad, I think, I must 
ha’ been. Poor Geoif was the soul of 
honor, and Tom takes after him.” 

“ It’s a great pity, Sir Dene, that the 
suspicion was caught up against him. 
Of course he did not take it. But who 
did ? ” 

“ There ! Let the dratted dross go. 
I shan’t make a stir over it. Perhaps 
the rats — sink ’em ! — got at it. Much 
good may it do ’em ! ” 

The explosive answer proved how 
very much Mr. Aide’s comments, com- 


ing upon his own previous state of 
mind, told on Sir Dene’s temper. It 
was the custom in those days for country 
gentlemen — and town gentlemen also 
for that matter — to use far broader 
terms of speech than these. Sir Dene 
had usually been a notable exception, 
save at some rare moments when passion 
o’ermastered him. It appeared that 
passion could sometimes be in the ascen- 
dant still. 

“ Are you ill ? ” asked Mr. Arde, 
wondering at the irritability. 

“ I don’t know. Ill in temper, I 
suppose. I miss Tom. Things go cross 
without him. That Weston that they’ve 
put on has been in three times this very 
day, asking this and asking ’tother. 
Three times ! I shall have my life 
bothered out. Tom was my right hand, 
Arde. I didn’t value him when he was 
here, but now I look round for him every 
minute of the live-long day.” 

“ Have him back,” suggested the 
Squire. 

“ Not just yet. Lady Lydia would 
say I did it to affront her. He ivas in- 
solent to her : there’s no denying it. 
And there’s that other thing lying 
always against him. He forgot his 
honor there.” 

“But what is that other thing?” 
questioned the Squire, thinking he was 
about to have his curiosit}^ gratified at 
last. “ Tom declares he knows of noth- 
ing.” 

“ Let it pass,” snarled Sir Dene, put- 
ting up his hand impatiently to enforce 
the words. “ I’ll never give utterance 
to it as long as I live : Pd rather open 
a running sore. Tom’s been a con- 
founded fool — rand that’s enough. No, 
Arde : I can’t recall him yet to Beech- 
hurst Dene.” 

“ A spell of absence and of Ireland 
will do him good,” remarked Mr. Arde 
soothingly — for he had rarely seen Sir 
Dene put out so grievously as this. 
“ It will give him the experience of the 
world that he’d never learn at home : 
and a dose of roughing it is always 
servicable to young men. In regard to 
that money ” 

“ Hang the money ! ” roared the old 
man. “I won’t hear any mdre about 
the money. But for thinking he had 
helped himself to it— and I was an idiot 
for my pains — I might never have let 


BACK FROM BRISTOL. 


175 


him go. When it came to the last inter- 
view, why — things might have taken a 
turn. I never intended that to be 
the last — when I gave him his instruc- 
tions and the funds for his journey. 
Close upon that, the loss was discovered, 
and I locked myself up in these rooms, 
so as not to see him again, and gave my 
orders to Gander.” 

‘‘ 1 was only about to say that some 
one might have come in through the 
window, and taken it from the secre- 
tary,” quietly pursued Mr. Arde. “ In 
my opinion there’s no doubt it went 
that way ; I think Tom has none, either. 
For all you know. Sir Dene, some one 
may have been concealed amid the 
shrubs outside and have actually watched 
you count the money. Have watched 
all that passed.” 

“ Let it go, Arde. With one thing or 
another, you’ll ' drive me mad. Of 
course that’s how it went — have I no 
brains, d’ye suppose ? And to think 
too how I slandered Tom ! — own 
boy’s son ! Bury the money ! I wish 
Parker had been buried before he’d 
brought it here that afternoon ! ” 

In all this, Mr. Arde could but discern 
one prevailing desire : a longing to have 
Tom back again. The next minute, Sir 
Dene unconsciously confirmed it in a 
singular degree. 

“ Margaret gone ; gone in that awful 
manner ; and now he is gone ; gone in 
disgrace ! What’s the good of mj^ life 
to me ? They were the two I cared 
for.” 

“ Not much difiSculty, I fancy, in get- 
ting him back again before he reaches 
Ireland at all,” thought the Squire. 
“ You’d like Tom to be here, I see, Sir 
Dene,” said he aloud. 

“Better, I daresay, than he cares to 
come,” retorted Sir Dene. “Never to 
write a word to me : — it’s too ungrateful, 
Arde.” 

Mr. Arde thought if the very nice 
letter he, himself, had received from 
Tom, and wondered. During that inter- 
view at Bristol, the subject w'as not 
started, and Tom did not happen to 
mention that he had written to his 
grandfather. 

“ But — has he not written to you. Sir 
Dene ? ” 

“ Not a word. He is bearing malice, 
you see. I didn’t think it of him. Or 


else he’s ashamed to .write. There : let 
it go, I say. Come ia at five and eat a 
bit o’ dinner with me, Arde. Goodness 
knows I’m dull enough. We’ll have it 
up here alone together, you and me.” 

“Tom shall get a private hint from 
me not to hurry away from Bristol, and 
to write to the old man forthwith,” men- 
tally decided the Squire, as he accepted 
the invitation. “ In a week’s time he’ll 
be back at Beechhurst Dene.” | 

“ Would he ! If things did but go ac- ' 
cording to our wishes, well-laid plans 
might succeed. The first link in the 
chain of events, destined to frustrate 
Squire Arde’s good intentions, was 
woven even as he left Sir Dene’s pres- 
ence. 

Turning in at the library door, to say 
how d’ye do to the family, and to tell, 
them he had been to Bristol, Mr. Arde 
came upon Otto. Otto alone. He was 
leaning back in an arm-chair, his feet on 
the fender, reading some dry law book. 
The barrister was going up to London 
by the morrow night’s mail from Wor- 
cester : a letter, received that morning, 
was taking him away a day or so earlier 
than he had intended. Putting the 
book down, he rose from his seat to 
shake hands with Mr. Arde. 

“ I am heartily glad you’ve been to 
see him. Squire,” spoke Otto earnestly 
as they stood over the fire, and he listened 
to the details of the Squire’s journey. 
“In my opinion Tom has been shame- 
fully used among us.” 

“ Sir Dene wants him back already ; I 
see that plainly,” returned the Squire. 

“ As you say, he has been badly used.” 

“ Fancy his being accused of taking 
that bag of money ! ” continued Otto. 

“ Great asses they must all have been to 
think it ! ” 

“ Ay. But now — who could have 
taken it ? ” 

“ Who ! Why, Randy Black.” - 

“ Randy Black ! ” echoed Mr. Arde in 
great amazement. 

And the exclamation caused Otto to 
remember what in the impulse of the 
moment he had quite forgotten — his 
brother’s earnest injunction not to speak 
of Mr. Randy. He set himself to repair 
the damage in the best way he could. 

“ Look here, Squire. I ought not to 
have spoken of this,” he said, dropping 
his voice. “ Jarvey has got some idea 


176 


DENE HOLLOW. 


in his head as to another man — not 
Black — and has sworn us all to silence in 
the interests of justice. Don’t let it go 
any further.’’ 

The Squire nodded. “ Do you happen 
to know who the other is ? ” 

‘•Jarvey won’t say: it might defeat 
. enquiry, he thinks. For my own part, 
I privately believe there’s no doubt it 
was Black. Not to speak of the man’s 
bad character, appearances are nearly 
conclusive against him.” 

“ Do you object to tell me what they 
are ? ” 

“ Not at all — as I’ve told jmu so much. 
But mind you keep counsel.” 

‘‘Of course I’ll keep it,” said the 
Squire. “I’ll not help to defeat the 
ends of justice for the world.” 

And Otto Clanwaring, perfectly satis- 
fied of that, with or without the assur- 
ance, related what had come to their 
knowledge. About the time that the 
robbery was committed, Bandy Black 
was seen to fly dovyp the side path, lead- 
ing direct from the bay window, in what 
seemed be an agony of terror. “ Which 
terror might of course have been caused 
by a fear of pursuit — and most probably 
was,” concluded Otto. 

“But who saw this ? ” questioned Mr. 
Arde. 

“ It was Mary Barber. She was com- 
ing across here, it seems, to borrow some- 
thing of the cook : and met Black in 
this state. I never met any case that 
looked more like a circumstantial evi- 
dence of guilt in my experience,” con- 
tinued the barrister with as much as- 
sumption of dignity as though he had 
been the Lord Chief Baron of the 
realm. 

Mr. Arde agreed. In his own mind 
he deemed the evidence perfectly con- 
clusive against Black. “ Sir Dene does 
not know of this, does he ? ” he asked. 

“ Not yet. Jarvis wants to follow up 
his suspicion first in quiet : if Sir Dene 
were told, he would be sure to make a 
stir in it, and accuse Black. And that 
would — would spoil sport,” concluded 
Otto after a slight pause of considera- 
tion, during which he had remembered 
that he had no right and no need to al- 
lude to the other motive given by his 
brother for keeping Black’s name from 
Sir Dene — the debt. 

“ Any way, whoever it may turn out 


to be. I’ll answer for it that it was not 
Tom Clanwaring,” concluded Mr. Arde, 
as he shook hands to leave. 

“ I’d have answered for that myself 
all along — and told them so,” was the 
reply of Otto. “ Mind you keep counsel 
abroad, Squire. Above all, don’t let out 
to Jarvis that I’ve said anything. He’d 
think at once it was going to be pro- 
claimed to the parish.” 

Squire Arde nodded. “ All safe. 
Trust me.” 

He went slowly down the front avenue 
with his hands in his pockets. The 
Squire was in no hurry : upon arriving 
at his home that day, he had found his 
wife and daughter absent. Not expect- 
ing him — in fact, not knowing when he 
would return, or where it was that he had 
gone — they had driven over to spend the 
day with some friends, living in the 
neighborhood of Powick. One of the 
children at the lodge — it was a fresh 
generation there now — ran out with a 
smiling face, and held open the small 
gate for the Squire ; for which he patted 
her head, and dropped a half penny into 
her blue cotton pinafore. 

“ How’s mother’s ? ” asked he. 

“ Mother’s a getting better, thank yer 
honor,” said the child, bobbing straight 
down. “ Dick, he says we shall ha’ some 
snow-balling afore to-morrow,” gratui- 
tiously added she, her eyes brightening 
at the prospect. 

“ Maybe,” returned the squire. 

“ There. Bun in.” 

Outside the gate he stood, revolving 
what he had heard. A slight covering 
of snow lay on the ground, just enough 
to make the fields and roads wiiite. 
The little girl, peeping from the door, . 
thought his honor was contemplating 
the landscape in reference to the tempt- 
ing prospect ;^f snow-balling. Mr. 
Arde was debating whether, instead of 
turning home at 'once, where nobody 
waited for him, he would not rather go 
onTo Harebell Farm and question Mary 
Barber. He felt half inclined to con- 
tinue his walk also, from thence, to the 
Trailing Indian. 

“ All safe. Trust me,” the Squire 
had said to Otto Clanwaring ; and said 
it in perfect good faith. He would no 
more have gone talking of this matter 
to a stranger than he would have set the 
Worcester bellman to cry it in that city 


MISS EMMA GONE. 


177 


the next market-day : but it never oc- 
curred to him to think that he mijjht 
not speak of it privately to tlie only one 
to whom (apart from Beechhurst Dene) 
the incident concerning Black was 
known — who had been the one to wit- 
ness it, and to carry it to the Dene — 
Mary Barber. Bather, he considered, 
it was a secret lodged between himself 
and her; one tliat concerned him in 
whom they were both interested, and of 
whose innocence both felt equally sure 
— Tom Clan waring. 

“ I’ll go,” decided the Squire. “ I’ve 
got plenty of time on my hands, and a 
longer walk this sharp day’ll do me 
good. Precious cold that homeward 
journey was : one’s feet get frozen, 
travelling, such weather as this.” 

V Good day. Squire. So you’re back 
again, sir ! ” 

The salutation came from Cole the 
farrier, who met the Squire as he was 
wheeling round. 

“ J ust back,” returned the Squire. 

I’ve been to Ilristol.” 

A light shone in Cole’s eyes. The 
words revealed to him that he had been 
to see Tom Clan waring. 

“ Is he really a going to Ireland, 
Squire ? ”, 

That" he is. Cole. According to 
present intentions.” 

“ Wliat a shame it was, their suspect- 
ing him about that bag of money!” re- 
sumed Cole. “ As if IMr. Toni ’ud do 
dirty work o’ that sort ! ” ^ 

“ Pooh, that was all nonsense,” said 
the Squire, carelessly. “ It’s known it 
wasn’t him.” 

“ Ay, sure : or else I might ha’ put a 
spoke in the wheel for him myself,*” re- 
turned Cole in a' significant tone that 
caught the Squire’s ear. ‘‘ I saw some- 
body that same evening not a hunderd 
mile off Sir Dene’s bay parlor.” 

“I know!” cried the Squire in his 
incautious impatience. “ ’Twas Bandy 
Black.” 

Cole glanced keenly at the Squire, as 
if in some slight surprise: and then his 
eyes went straight out into the far-away 
horizon. It was only that morning that 
he had received Tom Clanwaring’s let- 
ter, enjoining silence. 

As to Bandy Black, if all tales be 
true, he’s capable o’ worse things than 
stealing money,” returned the farrier 
11 


carelessly. “But I’m not a going to 
mix mj'self up in his affairs. Good day, 
Squire.” 

“ Good day. Cole.” 


CHAPTEB XXYIII. 

MISS EMMA GONE. 

“ All of a shake, he was, and his 
face whiter nor this here kerchief I’ve 
got on,” said Mary Barber, in answer, 
to Mr. Arde’s confidential questionings 
as she stood, cloth in hand, and her 
gown drawn through its pocket-hole, for 
he had disturbed her when she was 
hard at work in the best parlor, “ bees- 
waxing” the bright old mahogany fur- 
niture. 

“ There can’t be a doubt that it’s what 
he’d been after — that bag of money,” 
returned the Squire. “ The very ab- 
surdity of his plea for accounting for the 
fright ; that he had seen — had seen 
Bobert Owen, would be almost enough 
evidence, without anything else.” 

Mary Barber did not immediately re- 
pl3\ She had thoughts and thoughts. 
Dwelling upon the matter very much 
indeed, as she had done since her visit 
to Beechhurst Dene, she had come to a 
somewhat different conclusion from that 
which she had mentallj'’ drawn then. 

“ Squire Arde, I think he saw^ the 
poor master. Anywa}", that he fancied 
he did. Because* ” 

“ How' can you talk such nonsense, 
woman ? ” interrupted Mr. Arde — who 
had never liked the report at all. “ I 
thought that fools’ gossip had died out 
long ago.”' 

“ So did I,” said independent Mary 
Barber. “ But, it seems it hasn’t : 
though what on earth can bring- him 
above ground again — if he is above it — 
is more than I can tell. Look here. 
Squire : that terror of Bandy Black’s 
last Saturday night was real terror: 
and I don’t believe it was caused, or 
could ha’ been caused, by anything but 
what he said. Supernatural terror is 
different from other terror, say that 
caused by the fear o’ pursuit. Had 
Black been running from pursuit only, 
he’d not have had his face ghastly, and 
his teeth a chattering, and his skin in a 
clammy sweat. He’d ha’ been flying 


178 


DENE HOLLOW. 


stealthily, too, with steps as hardly 
dared touch the ground for fraid o’ be- 
ing heard and tracked : not with a great 
open bustle and noise, as he was.” 

She paused, and gave a moment’s 
vigorous rub to the table, as if to en- 
force the argument. Squire Arde 
stood, knitting his brow. Leaving the 
cloth where it was, she resumed. 

“ Randy Black ’ud no more have 
showed that mortal fear to living man 
or woman if ’twasn’t real, then he’d con- 
fess liiinself a thief. It’s the sort o’ 
fear men be ashamed to own to : and 
they never would own to it but for being 
took unawares like, in the minute that 
the fright’s upon ’em. Why, Squire, he 
was beside himself with fright! He 
a’most clung to my shawl for company ! 
If he’d only been a taking the money, 
would he have given Jack Pound’s boy 
a sixpence to walk up Harebell Lane 
with him because he didn’t dare to go 
alone? No; he’d rather have slunk 
olf somewhere by hisself, and hid away 
from pursuit. Randy Black saw the 
old master on Saturday night. Squire,” 
she concluded emphatically, or thought 
he saw him, as safe as that my name’s 
Mary Barber.” 

“ All the same ; he might have helped 
himself to the bag of money.” 

“He might , she answered, with a 
stress on the word that indicated doubt. 
“ I don’t feel so sure of it as I did in 
the first burst o’ the thing. Maybe 
time ’ll tell, sir.” 

And someliow, Mr. Arde, a rather 
impressionable man, did not feel so 
sure of it, either. Instead of return- 
ing home when he left the farm, he 
walked across the fields towards the 
Trailing Indian. The narrow path be- 
tween the grove and the fence, from 
whence poor Robert Osven h.ad fallen 
(as was supposed) to his death ; the 
pond in the lane underneath ; the old 
cow-shed in the two-acre meadow — all 
were there just as they used to be a 
quarter of a century before. Squire 
Arde, passing the familiar objects, had 
his thoughts back in that bj^-gone time. 
He remembered, as though it had taken 
place but yesterday, that visit he and 
his relative, the quaint old Squire, and 
Geoffrj’- Clan waring had made to the 
Trailing Indian the day alter Robert 
Owen’s disappearance, and his own 


vague doubts of Black. If the land- 
lord had really had any hand in JMr. 
Owen’s death, it might account for 
these fits of superstitious terror, that 
had occasionally assailed him since. 

Silent and deserted as usual looked 
the Trailing Indian when Mr. Arde 
approached it. But no sooner had he 
entered the yard gate than a stout 
young fellow of eigliteen, Sam Pound, 
came rushing out of the stable. His 
smock frock was rolled up round his 
middle, he wore no hat, and he had 
altogether the air of being at homo 
and at work. 

The Pounds were enough to puzzle 
people — there was such a flock of them. 
John and Matty Pound, at whose cot- 
tage, as may be remembered, the widow 
Barber died, had fifteen children. This 
young man, Sam, was the youngest of 
them; Jack, the eldest of the bunch, 
was the father of the little lad who was 
carter’s hoy at Harebell Farm. 

“Is it you, Sam Pound !” exclaimed 
Mr. Arde. “ What are you doincr 
here?” 

“ I be a come to live up here, squire,” 
was the answer — and the jmung man 
appeared proud of having to say it, and 
pulled his hair, that was like nothing 
in tlie world but tow. “ That there 
stable be in a rare muck o’ pickle, so I 
were a cleaning of it out a bit.” 

“ Come to live here ? ” repeated the 
squire slowly, thinking it strange Black 
should take on a man when so little 
business was doing to require it. “Are 
you to be ostler ? ” 

“ Man of all work, indoors and out. 
Randy Black, he sent for old feyther to 
come up yesterday, and they made the 
bargain atween ’em. Five pound a 
year I be to earn and my witl’s and 
lodging. There be nobody but me to 
do nothing for ’em nohow,” added Sam 
Pound, who possessed about the readi- 
est tongue within a ten-mile radius. 
“ Landlord, he be bad of his cough ; 
and missis, her’s bad ; and Miss Geach 
she’ve been and went olf.” 

“Where’s she gone to? What’s phe 
gone for ? ” questioned the squire. 

“Well, I take it her didn’t care to 
stay no longer i’ the face and eyes o’ 
folks,” returned the shrewd young man. 
“ After a cocketing up of herself above 
the parish all these mortal years, and 


MISS EMMA GONE. 


179 ' 


a turning up of her nose at decent 
hard-working j'oung men like our Jim, 
a fine market she’ve been and went and 
brought her pigs to ! And Jim, he’s a 
doing better nor any on us, and could 
h?’ give her a good home, wi’ a side o’' 
bacon in’t ! ” 

“ But where’s she gone ? ” repeated 
Mr. Arde. 

Sam Pound shook his head to indi- 
cate his ignorance upon the point ; 
shook it resentfully too. 

“ Her stopped the stage coach as it 
druv along the highway yonder yester 
morn, missis says, and got up atop, and 
sot herself down on’t ; her, and her big 
ban’-box o’ clothes aside her.” 

The first object Mr. Arde saw on en- 
tering the inn, was Black himself, 
groaning and coughing and choking 
over the kitchen fire. Whether Black’s 
disobedience of the doctor’s injunction, 
to stay in doors, had tended to bring on 
a relapse, or whether it might have 
been the adventure in the Beechhurst 
Bene grounds that was telling on his 
nerves, certain it was that the man 
looked very ill ; ominously so. The 
poor ailing wife, worse than usual that 
daj’, was lying in bed upstairs. Mr. 
Arde sat down, his stout umbrella held 
out before him. 

Now, Squire Arde had not gone to 
the inn to accuse Black outright of the 
theft ; rather, he intended, by a series 
of delicate pumpings, to glean what he 
could in an incidental manner, and 
thence deduce his own judgment of 
things. But, nearly at the first he 
found himself foiled. Black evidently 
could not understand him ; and when 
Mr. Arde spoke out more plainly, the 
man’s surprise was so great, and appar- 
ently so genuine, that Mr. Arde was 
fairly puzzled. 

“ Bon’t you know that Sir Bene lost 
a bag of money out of his secretary on 
Saturday night?” pursued Mr. Arde. 

I never knew a word on’t,” returned 
Black emphatically, turning his white 
face (white from sickness) full on the 
squire’s — and for once both face and 
tones seemed as truthful as an honest 
man’s. “What sort of a bag was’t? — 
how much money had it got in’t?” 

“Well, it was just a little sample 
tarley-bag ; and the sum was forty-five 
pounds,” replied the squire, giving him 
gaze for gaze. 


“ Notes or gold, sir ? ” 

“ Both.” 

Black slowly turned bis eyes on the 
kitchen fire, and seemed to be thinking. 
It must be owned that he had not the 
air of a guilt}^ man. 

“ Hearing that you were met flying 
out of the grounds about the same time, 
Black — that is, at dusk — I was wonder- 
ing whether you had seen anything of 
the robbery,” continued Mr. Arde, think- 
ing he was opening the ball with charm- 
ing finesse. “Any suspicious looking 
people round the bay window, for in- 
stance ? ” 

Black shook his head. “ I warn’t 
anigh the bay window, Squire. I never 
got more nor half way up the path to’ard 
it.” 

“ What put you into that state of 
fright, then ? You had, I believe, all the 
appearance of a man flying from pur- 
suit.” 

“ Well, because I took a fright. Squire. 
It don’t matter what ’twas. I ” 

Black stopped short, turned sideways, 
and looked at his visitor questioningly, 
the sickly face growing a little dark. 
Mr. Arde thought the man had suddenly 
divined that he was suspected of this 
thing. 

“ 1 had got a fright, ’’ he repeated sul- 
lenly. 

“ Fancying you saw Mr. Owen’s 
ghost ! ” 

“ Bid you hear that there from Mary 
Barber ? ” questioned Black after a 
pause. 

“Well — yes. That’s near enough. 
What a foolish coward you must be. 
Black, to fancy any thing so ridiculous ! ” 
I see him as plain as I see you at 
this moment. Squire,” burst forth Black 
in excitement. “ He stood i’ the path- 
way right in front of me, and I were 
close up again him afore I knew what 
’twas a standing there i’ the dusk. I 
swear I saw him. I’d swear it if ’twas 
my last breath.” 

The recollection, even now, seemed 
to bring out a cold sweat on Black’s face. 
Mr. Arde, his hands leaning on the top 
of his umbrella, and his chin on his 
hands, could but look at him. For some 
moments nothing was to be heard but 
the ticking of the eight -day clock, 
standing in its upright case against the 
wall by the chimney piece. 

“Never a thing did I see i’ the 


180 


DENE HOLLOW. 


grounds but the ghost o’ E-obert Owen,” 
resumed Black, with the same amount 
of earnestness but with less excitement. 
“ Nothing frighted me but that. As to 
the theft o’ money from Sir Dene’s par- 
lor, I saw nothing on’t, nor nobody about 
to help theirselves to ’t. And I’ll take 
my oath as I never heered o’ the loss till 
this minute.” 

Had it been anj^body but Black, the 
Squire would have given to this the most 
implicit credence. Being Black, know- 
ing the man’s habitual cunning and ruses 
— his assertions of innocence when ac- 
cused of poaching and the like, every 
word of which was always a deliberate 
lie — he knew not what to think. A 
question suddenly occurred to him after 
he had arisen to depart. 

What brought you in the Beechhurst 
Dene grounds, at all. Black ? ” 

I was a going to ask leave to speak 
to Captain Clanwaring,” replied the 
man readily. “ He’s owing me a trifle 
for baccy, him ; and I thought I’d go 
across, and ask him for ’t.”, 

A very reasonable plea, presenting 
neither doubt nor difficulty to the mind 
of Mr. Arde. Sometimes he owed for 
tobacco at the Trailing Indian himself. 

“ I hear Emma Geach is gone away,” 
he remarked, the door in his hand., 

Drat her, yes ! — and I be glad on’t,” 
exploded Black, in a verj" different tone. 
“ I’d sooner have her room nor her com- 
pany.” 

“ Where’s she gone ? ” 

“Her didn’t tell me. Took French 
leave, and was off afore I got out o’ my 
bed ! Let her go where her will. Drat- 
ted baggage ! ” 

A sense of failure, in regard to the 
result of his expedition, lay on Squire 
Arde’s mind as he and his umbrella 
went down Harebell Lane. 

“ I don’t know what to believe, and 
t that’s the fact,” he told himself. “Every 
word the man spoke seemed true. But 
then — who can trust Black ? But for 
Otto Clauwaring’s strict injunctions to 
be silent, I’d ask the captain who the 
other one is that he suspects. As it is 
— well, it’s of no good for me to meddle 
further in it. Tom’s cleared among ’em, 
and so let it go.” 

Sir Dene Clanwaring and the Squire 
spent a pleasant evening together. Gan- 
der waiting on them. Sir Dene avoided 
the topic of Tom Clanwaring (and in- 


deed all topics connected w’ith home 
troubles), but ever and anon a chance 
word would drop from him inadvertently, 
by which Mr. Arde gathered how much 
Tom was missed. At nine o’clock he 
took leave, for the host was weary, and 
wanted to go to rest. 

“ Sir Dene feels Tom’s absence very 
deeply,” innocentl}^ remarked the Squire 
to Lady Lydia, when he looked into the 
drawing-room, where she was sitting 
alone. Captain Clanwaring and Mrs. 
Letsom were dining abroad ; Otto had 
gone out to post a letter. “ Sir Dene 
wants him back again.” 

“ Wants him back again!” repeated 
my lady, letting fall her knitting. 

“ Tliat he does,” cried the blundering 
Squire — who was one that could never 
see an inch beyond his nose. “ I think 
we shall have him back, too, before a 
week, or so’s, gone over.” 

Every drop of blood in Lady Lydia’s 
veins seemed to stand still as she listen- 
ed. Have the scapegoat back again ! — 
after all her trouble ! But she was a 
thorough diplomatist ; and she smiled 
sweetly on the Squire as he stood before 
her. 

“You have been to Bristol to see him, 
I hear.” 

“ Aye, I thought I’d better go. And 
really. Lady Lydia, I must say, I think 
he has been sent away unjustly. Tom 
assured me that he had done nothing to 
merit expulsion, as far as he knew.” 

“ You are so kind-hearted, dear 
Squire ; and so unsuspicious ! Of course 
Tom Clanwaring would not proclaim his 
naughty deeds to you,” 

“ The question, my lady, is — has he 
done any,” was the somewhat blunt 
answer. 

Standing beside him on the hearth- 
rug, glancing round as if to make sure 
that they were indeed alone, her voice 
quite affectionately low, her smile sweet 
still, my lady breathed into the Squire’s 
ear a whisper of Emma Gea51n 

“ No 1 ” broke out the Squire. “ That 
never was Tom.” 

“ Yes, it was. Torn.” And then she 
told what she had heard from Otto. 
Woven into a tale (as she had been 
weaving it in her mind this past week) 
it seemed to be a charming history of 
proofs, one fitting into another. Lady 
Lydia herself, fully believed in it. 

The Squire gave vent to a long, dis- 


SELLING OUT. 


181 


inal whistle. I’d never have believed 
it of him,” he cried, his mouth falling. 

What a confounded hypocrite he must 
be!” 

“ Believe me, dear Mr. Arde, it is bet- 
ter that he should be away than here,” 
she plaintivel}’^ said. Better for the 
peace of this house ; better for that 
miserable girl at the Trailing Indian ; 
better for you, especially better for your 
daughter. Bely upon it, all things are 
ordered for the best.” 

What difference does it make to my 
daughter ? ” demanded Mr. Arde, open- 
ing his eyes at the words. 

“ Ah — what ! But perhaps I ought 
not to speak out so fully,” she added in 
her candor. “ I should not to any one 
but yourself. He was a presuming, de- 
signing villain, dear Mr. Arde. He dared 
to fall in love with May — there’s no ques- 
tion of it ; there’s no doubt he dared to 
cherish the prospect of making her his 
wife. Yes, even he, Mr. Tom Clanwar- 
ing ! _ 

The squire’s eyes dilated : the squire’s 
eyes grew round with horror. He ! — 
the penniless obscure scapegoat, Tom 
Clanwaring ? 

“ Make up to Miss Arde ! — to my 
daughter ! ” he stuttered. “ Why the 
fellow must possess the impudence of 
Belial ! Is he mad ? ’’ 

“But that 3^0 ur own ej'es must have 
been held, jmu w'ould have seen it for 
yourself,” she said. “ I think Mrs. 
Arde did. /There’s no knowing what he 
might liave beguiled May into had he 
remained — a secret marriage, possibl}' : 
girls are innocent and persuadable. 
Secret marriages run in his race, you 
know.” 

It was a side fling at poor dead Geof- 
fry and Maria. Mr. Arde, overwhelmed 
wdth a conflict of feelings, wondered 
whether he was awake or asleep. 

“ Believe me, squire, it is good for us 
all that he should be at a safe distance. 
Once in Ireland the sea will flow between 
him and us. Let him stay thereJ^ 

Squire Arde acquiesced with his whole 
heart, and with a few strong words. 
He would have moved heaven and earth 
then to keep Tom Clanwaring and dan- 
ger away, rather than help to recall him. 

daughter! — and her twenty thous- 
and pounds on her wedding day, coveted 
bj" him ! He began to see that he was 


• a scapegoat, and nothing less : he began 
to think it likely that he had taken 
that money : all the enormities of which 
Tom Clanwaring had been accused found 
a willing echo in his mind. So prone is 
frail human nature to be swayed by 
self-interest. 

Going down the avenue on his way 
home, and stamping as he went, as if to 
throw the flakes of snow off his boots, 
in reality to stamp off his indignation, 
who should he meet just before he got 
to the lodge but Otto Clanwaring. In a 
few angry words the squire stormed out 
the news he had heard, and compared 
Tom to the arch-enem}^ 

“ Confound it ! I wish I had lost my 
tongue before I’d ever mentioned the 
thing,” was Otto’s vexed retort. We 
are none of us so white ourselves, squire, 
I dare say. As to that Geach girl and 
her native impudence, she’s not much to 
make an outcry over.” 

“ It’s not that,” foamed the squire : 
“it’s the two-faced hj^procrisy of the 
fellow altogether. I believed in him 
a’most as J^believed in mj’self, Otto 
Clanwaring.” 

And awa}’’ he went stamping furiously 
amidst the snow-storm. 


CHAPTEB XXIX. 

SELLING OUT. 

The days and weeks went on. Tom 
Clanwaring’s departure got to be a thing 
of the past. Tom was in Ireland, hard 
at work, filling the post that he had 
been sent to. It was no sinecure. He 
had been pretty active on his grandfath- 
er’s estate ; he had to do a vast deal 
more now; and his personal responsibih 
ity was greatly increased. The rumor 
that he had been Miss Emma Geach’s 
sweetheart had become public property 
— but 1 think this has been said before: 
and Hurst Leet concluded that SirHene 
— or perhaps my lady — had banished 
him by wa^' of punishment. Consider- 
ing the light estimation an3Thing of 
sweethearting was then held in, and the 
lighter estimation in which Miss Geach 
was held, Hurst Leet came to the con- 
clusion that the punishment was harder 
than it need have been. 

In January, when Otto Clanwaring 


182 


DENE HOLLOW. 


returned to London, the captain ran up 
with him, having, as he said, business 
there. But Jarvis was soon back again. 
Sir Dene, responding to some dexterous 
persuasion of my lady’s, helped Captain 
Clanwaring temporarily with a tolerably 
fair sum. It ought to have set him on 
his legs. Perhaps everybod}^ thought it 
had, save the captain and his creditors. 

In one thing the wise captain showed 
himself unwise. Unwise as a child. 
No sooner was he down at Beechhurst 
Dene again, than he made an offer of his 
hand to Mary Arde. In the whole, Tom 
had not been gone three weeks ; re- 
membrance of him and his shallowly 
disguised love was full on May ; and 
Captain Jarvis Clanwaring’s own sense 
(for he certainlj’ suspected the love) 
might have told him so. May refused 
him with a few pretty words of thanks. 
What else could he expect ? Private- 
ly cursing his precipitancj’, the gallant 
captain made her a soft, bland speech, 
intimating that his love for her could 
never die; and that he was willing to 
wait and work for her dS Jacob (to 
wdiom he compared himself) did for 
Kachel, and think it no hardship. To 
this May replied that she begged he 
would not think of waiting for her ; 
she had made up her mind not to 
marry at all. They parted good friends, 
apparently on the same terms that they 
had been before-hand. 

After this. Captain Clanwaring divided 
his time pretty equally between London 
and Beechhurst Dene. No lover could 
ever pay his court more silently and un- 
obtrusively than he did to Ma}', hoping 
to rectify that first mistake. Not a day 
passed but he was at the hall: but he 
pressed no more attention on May than 
he did on her mother. He had made 
up his mind to win her ; and win her he 
would; but he knew- that he could not 
do it by storm. Lady Lydia made the 
best play for him, especially with Mr. 
and Mrs. Arde. 

And in Mr. Arde’s great fear, lest his 
daughter should be beguiled by Tom 
Clanwaring and bestow herself and her 
twenty thousand pounds upon so misera- 
ble a scapegoat (for over that twenty 
thousand pounds Mr. Arde had no con- 
trol whatever), he looked with something 
like favor on the pretensions of Jarvis 
Clanwaring. Captain Clanwaring was 


not a particular favorite of his : he had 
disliked him as a boy, he did not much 
like him as a man ; and he would not 
have preferred a soldier for Ma3% Still 
the captain seemed strangely desirable 
by the side of Tom. We estimate all 
things by comparison, and shall as long 
as the world lasts. Mr. Arde knew no 
particular ill of Captain Clanwaring : it 
w'as generally believed that the captain 
had a few debts ; but debt was so com- 
mon an appendage at that day to young 
men of fashion, that Mr. Arde did not 
give that a second thought. Lady 
Lydia whispered that Jarvis w'ould in- 
herit a large amount of Sir Dene’s sav- 
ings, and all of her own. What her 
savings might be, or whence they came 
she did not state: but Mr. and Mrs. 
Arde both simple minded people in the 
main, never doubted her word. 

To his wife, and his wife alone, IMr. 
Arde had whispered the tale of Tom’s 
evil doings, of the incredible manner in 
which they had been deceived in him, 
of the infamous hypocrisy he must have 
carried on. Bushing home that January 
night through the snow storm, he found 
his wife, just returned, sitting over the 
fire in her bed-room, and he told her all. 
Mrs. Arde was shocked. She had a 
high esteem for Tom: putting aside 
that semi-fear as to her daughter, she 
liked him excessivel}’ : and she could 
not at first give credit to the tale. Her 
husband assured her that it was posi- 
tively true ; having no doubt of it him- 
self, you see. They agreed to keep it 
from May ; it was not suitable for her 
ears ; never to breathe it to her, save in 
the extremity of necessity. May gath- 
ered that Tom had done something or 
other frightfully wrong — a vast deal 
worse than having knocked down Cap- 
tain Clanwaring in a passion ; but when 
she asked her mother what it was, Mrs. 
Arde replied that it would not bear talk- 
ing of. 

Just a word here about Miss Emma 
Geach. She was supposed to be hiding 
her diminished head in some convenient 
shelter, near or distant as might be con- 
venient to her ; taking rest, and gather- 
ing fresh strength and (as the people put 
it) brass, against the time that she should 
come forth again to adorn the world. 
And that she would come, and live 
amongst them as usual, Hurst Leet 


SELLING OUT. 


183 


made no sort of question of. And thus 
the time went on. 

The next news was, that Captain 
Clanwaring had quitted the army. Sold 
out. Lady Lydia was the first to carry 
the tidings to Arde Hall ; Jarvis being 
in London completing the negociations. 
Two causes had induced him to take the 
step, she said : the one was, that he 
could not bear to separate from May — 
as he must have done, for he was unable 
to get a further extension of absence ; 
the other, that he knew Mr. Arde would 
like him better if he were not a soldier. 
In reference to May, Mr. Arde certainly 
would : but he observed to Lady Lydia 
that he thought it a pity : 3mung men 
were so much better with some occupa- 
tion than without it. 

The same reasons were assigned to 
Sir Dene Clanwaring, upon whom the 
news came with intense surprise. Sir 
Dene was rapidly failing in health. 
Both body and mind were now so weak- 
ened that a state something like apathy 
liad set in ; and he rarely took much 
note of anything. This selling out of 
Jarvis's, however, aroused him in an ex- 
traordinary degree, and he stormed over 
it as he had been wont to storm over 
anuo3"ances in the da3^s gone b3^ Lady 
Lydia quietl3' shut the doors while it 
lasted, then answered his questions and 
set herself to soothe the tempest. How 
did the fellow think he was going to 
live, flinging up his profession in that 
mad wa}", demanded Sir Dene ; and my 
ladj" calmly answered that he was going 
to marry Squire Arde’s daughter, and 
would succeed to the Hall (as a matter 
of course) in the lapse of time. Sir 
Dene shook his head, only half con- 
vinced — half convinced of the wedding 
project, not at all of the expediency of 
the selling out — but his ph3^sical powers 
were unequal to maintain either passion 
or contention long. Dear Jarvey had 
quitted the army because of this con- 
templated marriage, she urged ; he would 
for the present take up his abode at 
Beechliurst Dene, and make himself 
useful to his revered grandfather. 

Such were my lady’s specious whis- 
pers. But what, in all sincere truth, 
were the real inducing facts of his sell- 
ing out ? Simply, that he could not 
keep in. Captain Clanwaring was so 
deeply involved in debt that he was 


obliged to get the proceeds of his com- 
mission to extricate him — or rather, 
partially to extricate him ; for it would 
only go half way to it. Assistance he 
must have to avoid exposure and dis- 
grace. In some way or another, he had 
managed to stave off the evil day until 
now : when it could no longer be staved 
off by any mortal contrivance known in 
this world, save some of its golden coin. 
There was but one wav’ of getting it; 
and that was by selling the commission. 
Lady L3'dia had absolutel3" none to give 
him ; and Sir Dene it was of no use 
asking. My lad3^ had sounded the bar- 
onet, in a delicate wa3’', and found him 
more inexorable • than a flint. Not 
another penny-piece should Jarvis have 
from him, he said — na3’’, swore — as lie 
buttoned up his breeches’ pockets em- 
phatically ; he had let him liave too 
much alread)’ for his own good. Press 
it, Lad}’’ Lydia dared not ; still less 
might she hint at the embarrassment 
her son was in ; lest Sir Dene should 
talk of it to Mr. Arde (as he would be 
sure to do) and Jarvis’s hopes be ruin- 
ed with Ma3\ 

So the commission was disposed of^ 
and Captain Clanwaring — retaining his 
title b}" courtesy — took up his perma- 
nent abode at Beechliurst Dene. Wes- 
ton, the new superintendent of the es- 
tate, had not proved a very efficient suc- 
cessor to Tom Clanwaring; m}^ lad3", by 
dint of prayers and tears, and almost 
going on her knees to beg it, got Jar- 
vis to ride out on the land once a week, 
or so : and regaled Sir Dene’s ears with 
dear good Jarvis’s anxious indust^^ in 
Sir Dene’s interests. Sir Dene toe* no 
notice : thoroughly put out with-ithe 
ex-captain, he was barely civil to him. 

Grating ever on the baronet’s mind, 
was the one bitter fact of Tom’s ingrat- 
itude. Not a line had he received from 
him since his departure. He concluded 
— as what else could he conclude ? — 
that the young man had shaken off' the 
ties and obligations of years as we 
shake otf an old garment when it has 
served our turh, and abandoned him, his 
grandfather. Never was there a greater 
truth written than that of Shakespeare’s 
— “ Blow, blow, thou wintr}’ wind, thou 
art not so unkind as man’s ingratitude : ” 
and Sir Dene was feeling it to his heart 
of hearts. 


184 


DENE HOLLOW. 


But now — what was the fact? If 
Tom had written one tetter to Sir Dene, 
he had written ten. All had been con- 
fiscated by Lady Lydia as that first one 
was, sent from Bristol. At length Tom 
wrote to her : asking how it was be did 
not hear from Sir Dene : or, indeed 
from any one. My lady answered him 
forthwith. Sir Dene was poorly and 
ailing, too much so to be crossed or 
troubled, she represented. He was still 
incensed against Tom, and she did not 
wonder at it, remembering what discom- 
fort he had caused in those later daj^s at 
the Dene ; she added (in a parenthesis) 
lie could not hear to see one of Tom’s 
letters arrive, caused them always to be 
put in the fire unopened : my lady 
therefore counselled Tom not to write 
again. 

To suppress letters, or to present 
them to their owners, was an equally 
easy task, for Lady L^^dia, since they 
were delivered at Beechhurst Dene in a 
closed bag, of which she now kept the 
key. 

Another person that Tom had written 
to again, was Mr. Arde. When he had 
been about a fortnight in Ireland, he 
wrote to tell him what the place was 
like, what he had to do, and so on ; he 
also once more thanked him for his 
unexpected liberality. Now, what did 
Squire Arde do on the receipt of this let- 
ter ? He went into a passion and sent 
it back again. Snatching a sheet of 
paper, he penned a few strong words, 
commenting on Tom’s rascally pre- 
sumption in daring to address him, for- 
bidding him so to offend again, wrapped 
the letter inside, and despatched it to 
Ireland, unpaid. So, between them all, 
Tom got hardly used. 

And now things went on swimmingly. 
Captain Clanwaring, in feather as to 
cash, at least, temporarily, was the gay- 
est of the gay. He was a fairly good 
looking man, popular in the countjq and 
he made the most of his attractions. 
The report, whispered by Lady Lj^lia — 
that her son Jarvis would inherit all, or 
nearly all, of Sir Dene’s property not 
entailed — the entailed portion of course 
descending to young ^ene — spread 
everywhere; and people, judging lias- 
td}’, took it for granted Jarvis would be 
rich. Mothers far and near courted 
Captain Clanwaring; daugiiters ran 
wild to get from him only a look. He 


was the fashion ; the one cynosure of 
society : and that, in a country district 
and in the long-past days we are writ- 
ing of, implied a great deal. But he 
had only eyes and ears for May Arde ; 
his tender words, his sweetest smiles, 
his fascinations altogether were lavished 
upon her. Mrs. Arde favored the cap- 
tain’s pretensions far more than the 
Squire did. Good looks, good family, 
irreproachable name (and for all the 
Squire or any of his friends suspected, 
the captain’s was sufficiently irreproach- 
able), devoted love, and the star of 
fashion are all good things in their way, 
but they do not entirelj' compensate for 
lack of an assured position, of a safe in- 
come, or for a kind of innate dislike 
that the Squire could but be conscious 
of. But these objections of his were 
not absolutely insurmountable. Who- 
ever married May would obtain b}'- the 
act present money and future position, 
for Arde Hall would det?cend to May : 
and in regard to liking or disliking, that 
was May’s affair more than her father’s. 
Altogether, the Squire was at length 
brought to say that if May set her 
mind upon Captain Clanwaring, lie 
would not hold out against the marri- 
age. Captain Clanwaring in answer 
(for the concession was spoken to him 
personally) seized the Squire’s two 
hands in his, and thanked him with 
deep emotion, his dark eyelashes wet 
witJi tears. 

“ I think the fellow has some good in 
him,” decided the Squire. 

And so, once more, all things, being 
propitious, the captain tried his chance, 
and had another fling with the die. It 
was a lovely day in June, and Mary 
was sitting outside the window on the 
lawn bench, under the walnut tree, 
reading anew book. She wore a dress 
of some thin pink material, its low body 
and short sleeves (still the fashion) 
adorned with white lace. Her brown 
eyes were bright, her pretty hair was 
tossed back, her cheeks had a radiant 
blush. Something in the book had 
called up the signs, for the story put 
her in mind of her own story and Tom 
Clanwaring’s — a rich heroine was con- 
stant to a poor lover. May in her heart 
was just as constant to Tom, and meant 
to be : but the secret was buried five 
fathoms deep within her breast. 

1 “ How 1 long to peep at the end ! I 


BETTER TO HAVE L 

know it must all come right there!” 
she softly said, turning over some of 
the leaves. “ But, no, I'll not : it would 
spoil my pleasure in reading. And 
something else will come right, if we 
only have patience. I wonder what he 

is thinking all this while. If oh, my 

goodness, here comes that other one ! ” 

The other one was Captain Clanwar- 
ing. Glancing round in desperate hope- 
lessness of escape, May could only sit 
on where she was. The captain, deck- 
ed out in nankeen trousers and all the 
other fashionable adjuncts of the period, 
was kissing the tips of his tan-colored 
glove to her, as he advanced, flourish- 
ing his cane. May wished the grass- 
plat would open and let him in. 

Not at all. He came on safely, and 
sat down beside her. Possibly seduced 
to it by the sweetness of the summer 
day — the balmy air, the rich hues of 
the flowers on which the bees hummed 
and the butterflies sported, the scent 
of the new-mown hay in the side field, 
the universal loveliness of all things 
around — or perhaps by the winning 
beauty of May herself. Captain Clan- 
waring again spoke the few magic words 
to her, that many another girl in the 
country might have given her ears to 
hear. “ May, will you be my wife ? ” 

“Oh — thank you — thank jmu very 
much,” responded May in a desperate 
flutter. “ But — I — can't.” 

“ Do you mean that you wonH, 
May?” " 

“ I — can’t — thank 3^11 ; I don’t want 
to marrj’’,” stammered Ma3^ “ Please, 
Captain Clanwaring, don’t ever sa}’’ an\’^- 
thing about it again.” 

She had risen to escape ; but he 
caught her hand and detained her. 
Holding her before him while he pour- 
ed forth his love-tale, her face so prett}' 
in its distress, the blushes chasing each 
other across it, was more than he could 
withstand ; May, suddenly found his 
handsome black moustache bent upon 
her lips, and a kiss taken. With a 
sharp wrench of her hands out of his, 
and a cr}' of pain. May got away from 
him and ran in doors. 

Susan Cole, putting her young lady’s 
things to rights in the wardrobe, was as- 
tonished to see her dart into the cham- 
ber, fling herself on a chair, and burst 
into tears. 


ET THE DOUBT LIE. 185 

“ What on earth has took you now, 
Miss May ? ” 

“ I wish I could run away somewhere ! 
I wish I could ! ” exclaimed Miss May 
passionatel3^ “ It is a wretched world ! ” 

“ Indeed, and I think it’s a veiy good 
world, for them that like to make the 
best on’t,” returned Susan. 

At that moment some lines of an old 
song were heard through the ‘open win- 
dow : a tolerably old song even in that 
day. This singer was probabl}' uncon- 
scious that he had an audience. 

“Don't you remember a poor carpet weaver, 

Whose dau^:hier loved a youth so true. 

He promised one day that he never would leave her, 

Down in the vale where violets grew. 

Never, he told her, would ho be a rover; 

She fondly thought he told her true. 

Ah, how shall this maid his truth discover? 

Ah, will he plight his vows anew?” 

Susan Cole’s head went cautiously 
out. “ It’s Captain Clanwaring, Miss 
May ; ” she whispered, bringing it in 
again. “ He’s a sitting on that there 
seat below, under the walnut tree.” 

“And I wish he was hanging on the 
tree instead I ” returned Miss Ma}'. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

BETTER TO HAVE LET THE DOUBT LIE. 

Still as a statue, her face white and 
rigid, almost like one that is carved out 
of stone, sat Marj' Arde. There’s an 
old sa3’ing, “desperate causes require 
de.sperate remedies ” — and a desperate 
reined}’’ liad just been applied to Maiy’s 
obstinacy. In the vexation brought to 
Mrs. Arde by her daughter’s second 
refusal of Captain Clanwaring; in the 
worse vexation inflicted b}' the full per- 
suasion that the rejection was caused 
solely by the 3’onng lady’s liking for 
Tom. Mrs. Arde suffered lierself to 
impart some liiiits to May, vvliich she 
would have been sorry to do under less 
exacting circumstances. 

It could not be (to go hack a few 
months) but that the gossiping charges, 
laid to the door of Miss Emma Geach, 
should have penetrated the ears of 
Squire Arde’s daughter. Not a man, 
woman, or child in the place, but heard 
the comments freely bestowed upon that 
young person’s ill-behavior, and May 
amidst the rest. But that Miss Em- 
ma’s doings, good or bad, could by any 


186 


DENE HOLLOW. 


possibility concern her, or any of her 
friends or acquaintances, never crossed 
the mind of iVIay Arde. How should 
it ? May — to confess the truth — had 
always liked Emma Geach : with Maj' 
the girl was never impudent, but pleas- 
ant and good-natured ; and May had 
thought her very prett}’. So that 
when she grew to be talked of, May’s 
feeling on the point was one of intense 
sorrow ; and very little of blame. In- 
deed, as sensible people remarked, the 
wonder was, not that the girl had gone 
wrong now, but that she had kept 
straight so long, reared amidst the dis- 
reputable influences of the Trailing 
Indian. 

Nothing whatever had been heard of 
Emma Geach since that bleak January’ 
morning when she took her abrupt de- 
parture by coach from the inn. As the 
months went on, and sh.e did not make 
her re-appearance, as expected, people 
grew tired of looking for her. They 
regarded her prolonged absence as a 
kind of slight offered to their curiosity, 
and resented it. Where was she ? 
What had become of her ? Surely she 
had had time enough, and to spare, to 
repose herself in her retreat ! Who was 
she with ? — what was she doing ? All 
the gossips in the parish asked it one of 
another. But, for any answer that en- 
sued, they might as well have put the 
questions to the moon. 

Late in the spring; nay, at the com- 
mencement of the summer; a kind of 
solution came. There arose a rumor in 
the place that Miss Emma’s retreat was 
discovered. It was affirmed that she 
was in Ireland, pa^dng a friendly visit to 
Mr. Tom Clanwaring. 

This clinching assertion could not at 
first be traced to any one person in 
particular. Z heard it from Y ; Y from 
X ; X from W ; and so on ; but to get 
all the way back to A, step by step, 
seemed impossible. At length it was 
said that Black at the Trailing Indian 
was the authority, and that his wife 
liad received a letter from Ireland from 
Emma Geach. Up)on that, all eyes 
were opened in a most wonderful and 
convincing manner : and people asked 
one another how they could have been 
so obtuse as not to discern that when 
she went off by the stage coach it must 
have been because he had gone before, 


and that she probably went straight to 
Bristol, the horses’ heads being set that 
way. High and low, up and down, 
went this report : to Beechhurst Dene 
and its grieving master ; to Mr. and 
Mrs. Arde ; to the village shop-keepers, 
to the peasants in the hay- fields. 

“ The girl in Ireland ? — It cannot 
surelj’^ be true ! ” cried Mrs. Arde 
aghast. 

‘‘ Nay, but it is true ; there’s no doubt 
of it,” replied. Lady Lydia — for it was 
she w'ho had first carried the news to 
the Hall. “Jarvis went up to the 
Trailing Indian, and put the question 
direct to Black.” 

A charming dish of well-seasoned 
hash, all this, to tell May. Or, rather, 
to hint to her ; for Mrs. Arde, respect- 
ing her youth and innocence, did not 
speak out very plainly. And there sat 
May alone in her chamber after the 
communication, feeling more dead than 
alive. 

Tom Clanwaring worthless — and so 
worthless ! Tom Clanwaring whose love 
she had fondly thought was given alone 
to her, and who had, and knew that he 
had, her whole heart ! Oh, what a 
simpleton she had been ! What a poor, 
soft, deluded simpleton ! 

On the past Christmas night — barely 
six months ago, but which seemed to 
May, looking back, ages and ages — she 
had been so intensely happy as to .won- 
der whether anything in life could ever 
look cloud3^ again : now, sitting there 
in her miserable chamber, with that 
most miserable blow weighing down her 
head, that utter despair her heart, she 
felt that life, no matter how long it 
might endure, would never emit for her 
one ray of brightness. 

“ Poor child !” exclaimed sympathis- 
ing Susan Cole, wdio divined wliat the 
nature of the interview between mother 
and daughter had been as sharply as 
though she had made a third at it. 
“ It’s too bad of missis to ha’ told you 
thatr^ 

May looked up with a start : her 
frame shivering, her cheeks hectic. 
She could not have spoken openly of 
the trouble for all the world; she would 
have died rather than let it be suspected 
how it •’was trying her. But, to this 
woman, who had nursed her in infancy, 
scolded and kissed her at will, her heart 


BETTER TO HAVE LET THE DOUBT LIE. 187 


yearned ; yearned for what none could 
im})art — consolation. 

“ I don’t think you know anything 
about it, Susan,” she said, speaking in 
tlie liglitest tones she could call up. 
“ I don’t know what you mean.” 

“ Not know about it ! Why, Miss 
^lay, ever}'^ soul i’ the parish has knowed 
about it for months past, but you. 
After keeping it from you so long, I say 
it might lia’ been kept always.” 

“ It can’t be true, Susan ! ” 
jMiss May, don’t you try to go again 
common sense,” reprimanded Susan. 
“ Facts is facts. And, now that you’ve 
been made to hear ’em, it’s o’ no use to 
hope to shut your eyes again ’em. 
There’s nobody i’ the vvdiole place as 
does, but one : that there brother o’ 
mine, down at the forge.” 

A light as of half-hope shone in May’s 
eyes. Does he not believe it, Susan ? ” 

“What, Harry Cole! Not he. If 
he see Mr. Tom Clanwaring a setting 
his neighbor’s rick afire, Harry Cole ’ud 
shut his eyes, and only believe in him 
all the more. He swears by Mr. Tom 
Clanwaring ; he do.” 

“ Do y<m believe in it, Susan ? ” 
breathed Ma}^ quite hating herself for 
stooping to put the question. But, in 
great misery, it is something to have a 
straw to catch at. 

“ I should be a soft swaney if I 
didn’t,” was Susan Cole’s answer. 

“ It is very dreadful,” sighed May, 
with a sob of the breath. 

“ Oh well, of course it is, Miss May,” 
came the only half-acquiescing rejoinder. 
“ But young men he young men, all the 
world over. For the most part, you may 
just trust ’em as far as you can see ’em. 
I be bound poor Mr. Tom had a rare 
example set him by Captain Clanwaring 
— in smoking and chaffing and what 
not,” continued Susan tossing her head. 
“ The one manages not to get found out, 
and the ’tother can’t manage it : that’s 
the chief diffierence, I expect, Miss 
May.” 

Susan whirled away from the room 
with as little ceremony as she had used 
in whirling into it. May sat on with 
her sorrow. 

But, thinking here and thinking 
there, a reaction took place in her mind. 
All the deep regard and esteem given to 
Tom Clanwaring for years could not 


thus be set aside in an hour’s time. 
May began to remember how unjustly 
Tom Clanwaring had been traduced, al- 
ways ; and to ask herself what proof 
there was of this new charge ; to ques- 
tion whether there could be any. 

“ Susan,” she said, when the maid 
next entered, “ all this maj- be only a 
tale. Where’s the proof of it ? ” 

“Proof?” returned Susan. “Well, 
there’s only two people i’ the place can 
furnish that, Mi.ss May — Black and his 
wife at the Trailing Indian.” 

“How I wish I dare ask them!” 
thought May in her desperation. 

For three days and nights IMay 
brooded over the question — w/ifjht ^he 
ask them ? And what at first she be- 
gan by answering to herself “ decidedly 
not,” ended in “ I will.” During 
those three days and nights she neither 
eat nor slept : hope and fear alternated, 
the latter greatly predominating : and 
the whole time was as one long mental 
agony. 

Perhaps she might never have gone, 
but for a rather singularly good oppor- 
tunity, of doing so, presenting itself. 
These opportunities are the occasion of 
half the good and of half the evil that 
takes place in the world. On the third 
day, in the afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. 
Arde went to a dinner-party, a drive of 
seven miles, leaving May at home alone. 

It was one of those lovely summer 
evenings, when the moon is rising just 
as the sun sets. Bright, warm, still, 
the world seeming to be at rest, under 
its flood of golden light. It had been 
too hot for walking in the day : May 
had sat about in garden seats and under 
trees, nursing that hidden weight that 
lay on her heart. A wish to go for a 
walk now arose suddenly ; and with it 
an impulsive thought that it should be 
to the Trailing Indian. 

“ I shall go out, Susan,” she said in 
her pretty imperative way. “ Put 3'our 
things on.” Susan Cole obeyed, and 
they started. 

Behold them emerging from the 
Squire’s grounds on the upper road. 
Miss May in a pretty hat trimmed with 
a garland of roses and with a green par- 
asol held against the light in the west 
where the sun had set; Susan Cole in 
her eveiy-day bonnet, which was just 
the shape of a big boal-scuttle, and 


188 


DENE HOLLOW. 


made of black silk : and in a spotted 
cotton kerchief crossed upon her 
shoulders. May had some dainty 
white frilled affair on over her summer 
muslin, and black lace mittens that 
went to the elbows. The young lady 
turned to the right on reaching the 
road. 

“ Going tliatv^^y ! ” exclaimed Susan 
Cole, in an accent of surprise mingled 
with a little tartness. “ What on earth 
for. Miss May ? ” 

“ Because I choose to,’^ answered 
Miss Ma3\ 

Susan Cole gave a sniff. The way 
did not please her. She liked to meet 
sociability and gossip when she went 
out. To the left there were houses and 
cottages and men and women. To the 
right, the way Miss May had chosen, 
there was nothing but the solitary road ; 
Sir Dene Clanwaring’s park well bound- 
ing it on one side, the landscape beyond 
Dene Hollow on the other: and not a 
chance of encountering so much as a 
W’agoner. 

“Well, this is a lively way to take,*’ 
cried Susan disparagingly. “ Be you a 
going to call at the Dene, Miss May? ’’ 

“Not if I know it, Susan.” 

Another sniff or two, particularly 
crusty, and Susan Cole stepped on, in 
her tied shoes and white stockings, at 
the young lady’s side.' Her cotton 
gown, a buff-colored sprig upon its light 
ground, reached nearly to the ankles. 
By the very way she walked, long 
strides, and her feet planted firmly upon 
the path. May saw she was in one of 
what the young lady was wont to call 
“ her tempers.” All things considered. 
May thought it might be well to concil- 
iate her. If Susan set her face obsti- 
nately against the expedition, they 
might never get there. 

“ I am going to the Trailing Indian, 
Susan.” 

The avowal took Susan aback. Ab- 
stractedly she had no objection ; for to 
get a word or two of gossip with Black 
and his wife was better than getting 
none. But her mood just then was con- 
trary. 

“ And what i’ the name o’ wonder 
should be a taking there. Miss 

May?” 

“I’rn going to see how poor Mrs. 
Black is. And,” she added, partly in 


her straightforward honesty, partly be- 
cause Susan would be sure to know the 
true motive just as well as she did, “ I 
shall ask wdiether that thing is true 
that has been said of Mr. Tom Clan- 
waring.” 

“ And why need you want to know 
whether it’s true or not ? ” demanded 
Susan Cole provokingly. 

“Oh — because I think it is a great 
shame of people to raise reports behind 
his back, when he cannot refute them,” 
her face turning as red as the crimson 
sunset. “ We were children together, 
and I can’t forget it : cousins, you 
know. That’s why.” 

“ You’d a deal better let it alone, 
Miss May.” 

May’s countenance took a defiant 
turn. “Y"ou think so, do you! And 
wh}^ pray, Susan Cole ? ” 

“ Blacks be the onh’- folk i’ the parish 
able to confirm the story and sa}' as it’s 
true. Nat’rally they must know — as 
the girl lived at their place. Better 
stop i’ the doubt. Miss Maj', nor hear as 
there’s no doubt about it.” 

But this was just what May did not 
iwtend to do. For, in her heart of 
hearts, she believed that a word of in- 
quiry might prove Tom innocent in- 
stead of guilty. 

In silence they proceeded up Hare- 
bell Lane, shady and gloomy in even 
the bright summer evening, round by 
the pond, and on to the inn. Seated on 
a wooden stool before the closed side 
door, was Black; while Mr. Sam Bound 
sauntered about the yard with a moody 
look on his face and his hands in his 
pockets, thereby looping up on either 
side his smock frock. Whether May’s 
courage failed her at seeing Black, wlmn 
she had hoped to see only his wife ; or 
whether she would not let it be thought 
she was coming up expressly, certain it 
was that she went on past the house. 
Then, turning suddenly, she came 
across to Black. 

“How is your wife?” she asked. 
For Mrs. Black’s chronic state of ill- 
health was such that people rarely failed 
to enquire after her. Black, instead of 
answering— as if he neither heard the 
question nor saw his visitor— lifted his 
face towards the upper part of the yard, 
and shouted out to the young man in the 
smock frock. 


BETTER TO HAVE LET THE DOUBT LIE. 


189 


Hang ye, Sam Pound ! Get off, 
will ye, and fetch that there mare in. 
What d’ye mean by slouching about 
there, a doing o’ nothing ? ” 

“ Be the mare to come in to-night? ” 
responded Sam Pound. For which ap- 
parently dissenting question his master 
gave him some abuse ; and Sam went 
off. The mare belonged to a traveller, 
who had left it for a week to the care of 
the Trailing Indian. 

“ What did ye ask — how the missis 
be ? ” resumed Black to Miss Arde, at 
his leisure, after this. “ Her bain’t no 
great things. Her never be.” 

“We should like to go in and see 
her,” said the young lady timidly. “ If 
you please.” 

“ Ye can^t then. Her bain’t to be seen.” 

“ Where’s your mannas, Randy 
Black ! ” put in Susan Cole sharply. 
“ Is that the way you answer the Squire’s 
young lady ? ” 

Randy Black took no notice whatever 
of this. Stooping down, he picked up a 
dirty pipe that lay on the ground beside 
him, took some tobacco from his pocket, 
and began filling the bowl. The man 
looked somewhat better than he did in 
the winter ; but his sallow face had 
strangely haggard lines upon it. He 
was seated so immediately before the 
door, that they could not attempt to go 
in, unless he moved. Of late, the door 
in front, facing the road, had not been 
used ; it w^as hardly ever unlocked. 

“ ’Taint o’ no good your stopping,” he 
suddenly said, just as Susan Cole was on 
the point of another explosion. “ The 
missis be abed. I bain’t agoing to let 
her be disturbed at this time o’ evening.” 
And as Black was not a man to be per- 
suaded by anj^ means, but always stuck 
to what he said, good or bad. May knew 
that all hope of seeing Mrs. Black was 
over. Susan Cole caught the look of 
depression that took her face. 

“ Look here, Randy,” said Susan, 
diplomatically coming round to a kind of 
hail-fellow-well-met tone, “as we be 
here, I may as well have a word with ye 
about Emma Geach. How was she get- 
ting on when you heard from her ? ” 

“ ’Twarn’t me as heerd ; ’tw’ere the 
missis,” ungraciously returned Randy. 

“ Well, how was she ? ” 

“Tolerable, I b’lieve. Babby were 
dead.” 


“ ’Twas a sad pity for ner it should 
have happened, Randy,” continued Su- 
san, as if all her best sj^mpatliies were 
in full play for Miss Emma. 

Randy gave an ungracious grunt. 
“ Her made her own bed, and must lie 
on’t.” 

“And — was her sweetheart really 
Tom Clanwaring ? ” asked Susan, drop- 
ping her voice to so low atone that even 
May scarcely caught it. The young 
lady suddenly turned her back, as if she 
saw something passing in the lane. 

“ Why, who else should it ha’ been ? ” 
retorted Randy, lifting his eyes in sur- 
prise at Susan Cole. 

“ One was slow to believe ill of Aim., 
you see,” she observed, with something 
like a sigh. 

“ So one is o’ most folks as have car- 
ried white faces — till they be found out,” 
said Randy pressing down the tobacco 
with his dirty little finger. 

“ And — is it true again that she’s with 
him over in that there place o’ bogs — 
Ireland ? ” 

“ Where else d’ye suppose she is, 
Susan Cole ? ” 

“ And that she went straight off to 
him at Bristol when she run away from 
here?” continued Susan Cole, her own 
interest in the colloquy getting high. 

“ I dunno about her going off straight 
to him,” was Black’s answer. “Should 
think her’d not be such a fool as that, for 
fear o’ being tracked. He’d never ha’ 
been such a fool as to let her.” 

“ Any way she did go to him ; then or 
later.” 

“ In course she did. And I wish ’em 
joy o’ one another’s company 1 ” 

“ Are you going to talk all night, 
Susan ?” came the interrupting voice of 
Miss Arde at this juncture — and no one 
living had ever heard her speak so sharp- 
ly. “ We must be getting homewards.” 

“And so we must, Miss May. Well, 
good evening, Randy Black. Tell the 
missis my young lady called in to ask 
after her. Good evening to you, boy,” 
civilly added Susan, as they turned out 
of the yard, and encountered Sam Pound 
bringing in the mare. 

Back down the lane in the same 
silence they had come up it, went they. 
May’s face was white, her frame ^shiver- 
ing : this confirmation of the worst was 
to her more bitter than death. In pass- 


190 


DENE HOLLOW. 


ing the poiid, Susan spoke in a half 
whisper. 

“ Miss May, I told you it might be 
better for jmu to let doubt alone.’’ 

“ No, it is best as it is,” she resolute- 
ly answered, biting her poor lips to get 
some color into them. “ Best that the 
doubt should be set at rest.” 

Dingy and gloomy seemed the lane, 
now; not as much as a glimmer of the 
moon shone through the trees: it was 
not so gloomy as Maj^’s heart. They 
stepped on side by side, saying no more. 

“ Well, I’m sure ! — is it yon, Susan 
Cole ? And you, Miss May ! Good 
evening.” 

The salutation yjroceeded from Mary 
Barber. She stood at the gate of Hare- 
bell Farm in her white cap and crossed 
kerchief, that might have been the fel- 
low one to Susan’s. 

“ What be you doing up this way ? ” 

“ We’ve been to fetcli a walk — ’twarn’t 
possible to go out afore, this sultry 
day,” replied Susan prornptl 3 \ 

“ It have been sultry,” assented Mary 
Barber. “ I’m a standing here to get a 
breath of air. The heat’s made you 
look pale. Miss May.” 

Has it,” carelcssl}’ returned May. 

How is Fanny^ Tillett, Mary Barber ? ” 

“ She’s nicel}'-. Miss May, I’m ob- 
leeged to ye. We’ve got her two 
cousins a staying here ; the Miss Til- 
letts iTom the Wych. Nice merry 
hearted ymiing ladies, they be : one of 
’em. Miss Eliza, sings like a nightingale.” 

Tiie dull pain at Mary’s own heart, 
seemed very bad just then. Merry 
hearted ! She envied the Miss Tilletts. 

“Fanny’s going back to stay with 
them when they return,” continued 

Mary Barber. “ The master, he 

Why, who’s this now, a clamping down 
the lane ? ” 

The “clamping” proved to be from 
the heavy hob-nailed boots of Mr. Sam 
Pound. That gentleman was co ing 
along at full speed : Ids hands swaying, 
his smock-frock flying behind him, his 
shock of hair waving on his bare head. 
He made direct for , the gate and Mary 
Barber, touching his hair to Miss Arde 
and the company generally. 

“Ud you please to let ’em ha’ the 
loan of a candle up there, missis ? ” 
he asked, jerking his head towards the 
Trailing Indian. 


“ The loan of a candle,” repeated 
Mary Barber. “ Be you out o’ candles 
up there, Sam Pound ? ” 

“ We be. Our last bit, it were a’ 
burned out i’ the night ; and the mas- 
ter, he clean forgot it till just now. 
He’ll a get some in to-morrow ; he 
tolled me to say so ; and ye shall have 
it back.” 

Not being particularly interested in 
the subject of the candle borrowing, 
Miss Arde and Susan said good night, 
and walked on. Mary Barber stood on 
at the gate : the fresh air, gently fan- 
ning her face, was grateful. Sam 
looked at her. 

“ Be you a going to lend us that there 
candle, please, ma’am?” he asked 
again in a minute or two ; and his voice 
had a kind of pressing urgency in it. 

“ I’ll fetch it directly. Be you in 
such a mortal hurry, Sam Pound ? ” 

“/bain’t, but the master be,’’ was his 
answer. “ He can’t abear to be i’ the 
house wi’out a light a’ter dark.” 

“ Can’t he,” retorted Mary Barber 
with comj)osure. “ How’s the missis ? ” 

Sam Pound looked about before he 
answered, as if to make sure the hedges 
would not hear, and dropped his voice 
to a low key. 

“ I think the missis be a dying, I do.” 

“ Wliat ! ” exclaimed the startled Mary 
Barber. 

“ I does,” he said. “ She ha’ been 
right down bad this two days, just a 
turning about in her bed like one as 
can’t keep still. All sorts o’ things 
she’ve been a calling out — about 
hearses, and diamonds, and lace, and 
murders; a reg’lar hodge-podge on’t. 
When Black found she was a talking 
like that last night, he bundled me 
down stairs, a saying as she was otf her 
head. Look here,” added the lad, lift- 
ing his eyes, full of a kind of fear, to 
Mary Barber’s, “it bain’t right for her 
to die up there all by herself. 1 don't 
like it. She’ve been a moaning to-day 
like anything. I heered it down in the 
kitchen.” 

“ Has Doctor P. iar been fetched to 
her ? ” questioned Mary Barber. 

“ Nobody haven’t been fetched to 
her : Black says the doctor can’t do 
her no good. Fact is,” added shrewd 
Mr. Pound, “ Black don’t want nobody 
to hear what her talks of. I say, d’ye 


BETTER TO HAVE LET THE DOUBT LIE. 


191 


mind hearing talk of a pedlar as was 
lost up there ? ’Twere afore my time.” 

Mary Barber nodded. 

“ Last night the missis was a calling 
out about him. * Oh ! don’t hurt the 
pedlar ! Where be the pedlar ? What 
ha’ you done wi’ him ? ’ Black, he 
turned the color of a grey horse and 
slioved the blanket over her head. 

But ’taint right for her to lie there 

all b}’’ herself to die, and not a Chris'n 
anigh her. Black, he stumps up a bit 
now and then, and he’ve 'sent me up 
wi’ things to-day : but mostly she’ll be 
all alone, a moaning like a poor hurted 
animal.” 

Mary Barber, making no comment, 
turned to go indoors, leaving Sam 
where he was. She came back with 
two candles held between a bit of 
paper, and her bonnet on. 

“ You run on down to Dr. Briar, Sarri 
Pound, and ask if he’ll be so good as to 
step up to the Trailing Indian, and say 
I sent ye. I’ll take the candles on there 
myself.” 

Sam Pound hesitated. He thought 
the Trailing Indian might not approve 
of seeing Mr. Priar, and that he him- 
self should have to bear the blame of it. 

“ Now you just be off,” cried Mary 
Barber. “ The sooner you be gone, the 
sooner you’ll be back again. Don’t 
stand staring like a stuck pig, Sam 
Pound.” 

Thus urged, Mr. Pound clattered off 
on his errand. And Mary Barber made 
the best of her way to the inn. 

• It was quite dusk indoors, and moon- 
light out, by the time she entered it. 
Black, regardless of the heat, had made 
up a roaring fire in the kitchen, for the 
sake perhaps of the light, and sat before 
it in his old wooden arm' chair fast 
asleep. Seeing him thus, a thought 
prompted Mary Barber not to wake him ; 
but rather to go up in unmolested quiet 
to Mrs. Black. An iron candlestick 
stood on the table, put ready no doubt 
for the return of Sam Pound. She 
slipped into it one of the candles she 
brought ; lighted it at the blaze, and 
stole up stairs. 

The sick woman lay on her bed — a 
low bed in a lean-to room — in utter still- 
ness. She was not dead ; but that she 
had not many hours of life left in her, 
Mary Barber saw. The light of the 


candle, or perhaps the stir, caused her to 
open her eyes: she looked quite sane 
now, whatever she might have been in 
the hours preceding. Mary Barber 
knelt down, and took the thin crippled 
hand that lay outside the clothes. 

I’m afraid you be very bad, poor 
thing,” she said, in her least hard tone. 

‘‘Ay, I have been. It*s a’most over.” 

“ I’ve sent to tell Doctor Priar. He’ll 
be up presently.” 

“ No good, no good,” said Mrs. Black, 
feebl}’' attempting to shake her head. 
“ Black, he’d ha sent for ’m, had it been 
o’ use. My time’s come.” 

Mary Barber, looking at her counte- 
nance, believed it was’ true — that no 
doctor could have done her good this 
time, or prolong her days. The dying 
woman resumed. 

“ Mine has been a weary life, and I 
be glad to go. I’d like to ha’ gone 
years back — but the Lord, he knows 
best. I hope He’ll remember what I’ve 
had to bear here, and gi’ me a little 
corner in Heaven.” 

“ And so He will ; never fear,” said 
Mary Barber heartily. “ I’ll send for 
the parson, and he shall say a prayer to 
ye.” 

“ I’ve said it for myself,” said the 
woman, closing her eyes. But her feeble 
fingers held the strong ones gratefully. 
There was a pause. 

“ Look here,” said Mary Barber, 
breaking it, her thoughts recurring to 
that one great — and in its surroundings 
most unsatisfactory — calamity of the 
past, that was never entirely absent 
from thorn long together, although so 
many years had gone by, “look here. 
Have. ye never a word o’ certainty to say 
to me about the death o’ the master ? ” 

Mrs. Black opened her eyes and stared, 
evidently not understanding. Her per- 
ceptions were becoming dim. 

“ My poor old master, Robert Owen o’ 
the farm. Did ye know at the time any- 
thing about his death ? ” 

The meaning was caught now, caught 
vividly. Mrs. Black’s face assumed a 
look of terror, and she caught hold with 
both hands of Mary Barber. 

“ I’ve lived in mortal dread o’ seeing 
him,” she cried, with a sobbing of the 
breath, “ I’ve not dared to go out i’ the 
gloaming all them 3’^ears.” 

“ Ay. But was he murdered ? ” 


192 


DENE HOLLOW. 


“ I don’t know. I never did know. 
Oh, it have been a fearsome life for me 
— fearing tliis, fearing t’other, and know- 
ing nought. I’m glad it’s ended.” 

“ Who the plague be tliat, a cackling 
np-stairs ? ” called out Black at ibis 
moment, his voice not at all the steady 
voice of a man at ease. 

“ It’s me. Black,” said Mary Barber 
tartly, going to the head of the stair- 
case. ‘‘ I’ve come to see if aught can be 
done for your wife. Just bring up a 
drain o’ wine if 3"e’ve got it, and some 
fresh cold water.” 

Before the astonished Black could find 
words strong enough to growl out his 
wrath at this summary invasion of his 
domestic privacj’^, Mr. Friar came in. 
Sam Found had encountered him turn- 
ing out of the gates of Beechhurst Dene. 

But the surgeon could not prolong the 
life of Black's wife. Pier poor worn 
spirit, crushed by care and fear, flitted 
awaj' as the summer’s morn was dawn- 
ing. 

» ' . . .. 

CH AFTER XXXI. 

SEEX THKOUGH THE VENETIAN BLINDS. 

Continued dropping will wear away 
a stone. During the whole of the sum- 
mer months, poor IMay Arde, her heart 
dragging along alwaj’S its heavy weight 
in silence, was subjected to a species of 
amiable persecution, the chief agents in 
which were her mother and Lady Ljulia 
Clanwaring. The praises of Captain 
Clanwaring were being ever said or sung ; 
the disreputable conduct of the scape- 
grace Tom reiterated. Not openly reit- 
erated ^ that might have defeated its 
ends : just a hint of this thing and a 
hint of that, something or other ever 
looming out to his discredit. Mr. Arde 
was not quite so active an all\\ But it 
was hardly right of him to let his 
daughter tacitly think there could be 
no doubt of Tom’s catalogue of crimes, 
the stealing of the mone}’’ amidst the 
rest. Mr. Arde believed quite enough 
against Tom without letting her remain 
in the assurance that Tom was guilty 
of much that he, the Squire, knew he 
was not. Self-interest makes some of 
us wink at deceit enacted in its cause ; 
as it did Mr. Arde : and he was on the 
brink of incurring a life-long penalty 
as his reward. 


May fought against the influence as 
long as she could : and then she jdelded 
to her fate. At least, juelded to it so far 
as conditionally to accept Jarvis Clan- 
waring and promising to be his wife. 
The Captain was ever near her ; but so 
kind, so gentle, so unobstrusive in his 
claims and attentions, that she felt 
ashamed even tacitly to show that she 
could not reward his love. A saint him- 
self might of late have believed in Cap- 
tain Clanwaring : Mr. and Mrs. Arde 
sang his praises eveiy meal time. May’s 
own feelings prompted her to take the 
Captain in spite of her repugnaiice to 
him. She was but a woman ; and she 
longed for a bit of revenge on Tom ; 
who had been so disgracefullj’’ false to her 
in secret, and who allowed jmung persons 
to pay visits to him in Ireland. It was 
but in accordance with human nature 
that -she should pant to show the false 
deceiver she cared for somebodj’ else as 
well as he did ; and show him, she 
would, whatever the cost to herself. 

It was in September that she accepted 
Captain Clanwaring. The promise she 
gave was full of hesitation, lier manner 
provokingl^' listless. “ As good Jarvis 
Clanwaring as an}-- other, if marriage it 
must be,” the refrain of despair kept 
beating in her heart. The Captain, all 
tejider kindness and impulsive grati- 
tude, ventured to press for an immediate 
union. But here Maj' rebelled : abso- 
lutely refusing not only to fix a speedy 
epoch but to give an idea of when an^- 
such epoch might be fixed. 

Now nothing upon earth could have 
been more untoward for the Captain ; 
nothing had caused him greater incon- 
venience than this. The proceeds of his 
commission had kept him afloat for a 
short while 5 but during these summer 
months he had not known what to do for 
money. The back claims that he had 
been unable to pa}' pressed more heavily 
upon him day by day ; and in this Sep- 
tember month, the month that witnessed 
May’s promise, his condition had grown 
desperate. Many an anxious hour did 
he and his mother spend together, plot- 
ting to see what could be done. Once 
let an exposure come, and the probabil- 
ity was that May would seize upon it as 
a plea for retracting her word, and the 
Squire uphold her. Lady Lydia was 
her son’s only confidant ; and she but a 
partial one. Jarvis gave her no details ; 


SEEN THROUGH THE VENETIAN BLINDS. 193 


and did not tell her the worst of his em- 
barrassments. My lady had been at her 
wit’s end many a time before, contriving 
how to do the best for him in his trou- 
bles ; but never so completely as now, 
when the glorious prospect of the mar- 
riage with the heiress had become a cer- 
tainty, and must, by hook»-or by crook, be 
allowed to go on to completion. To get 
money out of a flint stone would have 
been as likely a result as the attempt to, 
get any now or hereafter, from Sir Dene. 
Nevertheless, got it must be, even though 
the means used were desperate. Des- 
perate causes (the reader must pardon 
us for repeating a proverb quoted be- 
fore) require desperate remedies. 

The bright sunshine of September 
lay on the London streets, *as a lum- 
bering hackney coach passed on its slow 
way from a fashionable hotel at the 
West End towards Lincoln’s Inn. It 
drew up before a door in Old Square ; 
and Captain Clanwaring stepped out 
of it. His black moustache was charm- 
ingly curled ; his whiskers shone ; his 
appearance was altogether that of a 
stylish buck of the day. 

Flinging his fare to the old coach- 
man — who bad on a heavy great coat 
with about fifteen capes to it, in defi- 
ance of the weather’s heat — the cap- 
tain began to toil to the topmost cham- 
bers of the house. He anathematized 
the way a little as he went up, and 
struck his cane round once or twice an- 
grily. Arrived at the last flight, a door 
faced him, bearing a barrister’s name on 
its panels. Mr. Otto Clanwaring.” 

Otto Clanwaring worked just as much 
during the vacation as he did in term 
time. Jarvis, going straight in without 
the ceremony of knocking, found him 
with a law parchment of some kind 
spread out before him on the table, and 
his head bent over it between his hands. 
Seated sideways to the door, and suppos- 
ing it was only his clerk who had come 
in, Otto did not look round. 

“ What a deuced long way it is, up 
these stairs, Otto ! It’s my belief you’ve 
got another flight added on, since I was 
here last.” 

Up went Otto’s head with a start. 
‘‘ Why, Jarvis ! ” 

Laughing a littie ir nrise, the 

barrister rose and b*^ ’ ’ and to 

12 


his brother. Jarvis resigned to it the 
tips of his fingers encased in their deli- 
cate straw-colored kid. The contrast be- 
tween the brothers was remarkable. The 
one tall, handsome, elegant, attired in all 
the height of the fashion ; the other, 
little and plain, his clothes of homely 
grey, and somewhat shabby, 

“How hot you feel up here!” re- 
marked Jarvis, sinking languidly into a 
chair on the other side of the table. 

“ Rooms up in the roof are always 
hottest,” replied Otto. 

“ And highest. Why don’t you move 
down lower 9” ■ 

“This suits my pocket best, Jarvis. 
When did you come up to town ? ” 

“ Night mail,” shortly answered Jar- 
vis. 

“ All well at the Dene ? ” 

“Passably,” yawned Jarvis. “Old 
man gets more crotchety than ever. 
Shuts himself up in his chambers for 
days at a time. Lets nobody go in at all 
hardly but Gander.” 

Otto, who had resumed his seat, bent 
his head on his work again. That Jar- 
vis never condescended to trouble his 
chambers unless for some purpose of his 
own, was a long-ago proved fact ; and 
Otto knew he had only to be still to hear 
it. He would not enquire : not at all 
approving of these missions of Jarvis. 
The probability was that he. had come 
now to try and borrow money, or to 
badger him to accepj a bill. In the 
latter, Jarvis had never succeeded yet; 
the barrister was too cautious. 

Leaning a little forward on his chair, 
and lightly tapping the table with his 
cane, sat the Captain. Either he had 
nothing to say, and had actually come 
from the West End merely to while 
away an idle moment, or else he was 
taking a long while to say it. Tapping 
here, tapping there, he happened to tap 
a letter lying amidst other letters, and 
the tap flirted it upwards and turned it 
over. The direction was uppermost then, 
and caught the eyes of Jarvis, somewhat 
awakening them from their lazy indif- 
ference. 

“That’s Tom Clanwaring’s writing, 
Otto?” 

Otto quietly lifted his face. “ That ? 
Yes. I got the letter this morning.” 

Jarvis curled his lip. “ I wonder you 
suffer him to correspond with you ! ” 


194 


DEI^E HOLLOW. 


He is welcome to correspond with 
me if he likes. That’s the first letter, 
however, that I have had from him.” 

Jarvis wished to know what the letter 
was about, but did not ask. His brother 
had a civil way of declining to give in- 
formation, if it suited him not to give 
it. The next moment Otto spoke ; quite 
readily. 

“ Tom writes to ask me if I will tell 
him how things are going on in his old 
home. He says he can get no news 
whatever. Nobody writes to him.” 

“ What does it concern him, how 
things are going on ? ” growled Jarvis. 

“ I suppose he possesses common re- 
membrances and affections,” returned 
Otto, pushing up the cuff of his grey 
coat. The way Tom was treated 
among us all that time was an infernal 
shame.” 

“ You didn’t do much toward the 
treatment at any rate,” retorted Jarvis. 
“ Give you your way, and you’d just 
have shut your eyes to everything, and 
kept the fellow where he was.” 

Of course I would. And I’ve not 
forgiven myself yet for having been the 
means of letting out that thing about 
the Trailing Indian. No and not for- 
given some of the rest of you either, for 
taking it up in the manner you did. 
’Twas a cowardly shame.” 

Perhaps you’d like to say it ought 
to have been hushed up? That the 
fellow should have been let off Scot- 
free ? ” f 

One man may walk into the house 
while another may not look over the 
hedge,” remarked Otto. “ Had you or 
I been found out in a bit of a scrape, 
Jarvis, nothing would have been said. 
Not that I have anything to do with 
such scrapes, thank goodness.” 

Which almost sounded as if Jarvis 
had. The latter answered sharply. 

He had been the bane of our house 
long enough. ’Twas time he went out 
of it.” 

“Well, I see no reason for his being 
sent to Coventry now, in the way you 
all seem to be sending him. Just an 
answer to his letters once in a way, tell- 
ing him how Sir Dene is, would not 
hurt any of you.” 

Captain Clanwaring threw back his 
head and waved his scented handker- 
chief ; as if to wave off anything so low 


as Tom Clanwaring, that might come 
between the wind and his nobility. 

“ I would not condescend to write to 
the goat if he w’ere dying. One w’ould 
think yoq might employ your leisure 
better, Otto ! ” 

“ It’s not the first time my leisure will 
have been taken up in doing work 
neglected by others,” quietly replied 
Otto. 

“ Just as you please, of course,” was 
the rejoinder of Jarvis, scornfully de- 
livered, as if the subject were altogether 
beneath him. 

A silence ensued. The Captain 
leaned back in his chair, softly whistling, 
Otto turned over a leaf of his parch- 
ment, and made a pencil mark on its 
margin. Presently he spoke again. 

“ Has that Emma Geach come back, 
Jarvis ? ” 

“ I’ve not heard of it.” 

“ I wonder where she is.” 

“ Don’t know. There was a report in 
the summer that she was in Ireland.” 

“ Oh,” said Otto. And went on with 
his reading again. 

“ How is it 3’ou’ve not been down at 
all this year?” asked Jarvis, tapping 
his boot. 

“ I have had a good bit of work one 
way or another, and thought I could 
not do better then stick to it. Ploli- 
days run away both with time and 
money : I cannot w^ell afford either yet. 
Talking of money, Jarvis — has that 
thief been discovered yet ? ” 

“ What thief? ” 

“ You know. He who stole the bag 
out of Sir Dene’s secretary on New 
Year’s Day. You were going to follow 
up some suspicion upon the point. Did 
you ? ” 

“ No. At least I did what I could, 
but it was not enough. Nothing has 
come to light.” 

“And nothing will until Black con- 
fesses,” observed Otto. “ He was the 
thief. If I were down there, and Bir 
Dene would let me have the handling 
of it, Pd risk my reputation on bring- 
ing it home to the man in a week.” 

Jarvis pushed his dark face forward, 
and looked hard at his brother. The 
indifference on his countenance bad 
given place to what seemed quite like 
alarmed interest. 

“ Dov^* ’ '‘le with Otto. You 


SEEN THROUGH THE VENETIAN BLINDS. 


might do incalculable harm. At least, 
the harm of condemning the thing to 
remain for ever in its present obscurity. 
It was not Black. It was no more 
Black than it was you or me.” 

Have you still an interest in ward- 
ing suspicion off Black ? ” questioned 
Otto. 

“ I ! Why what interest did I ever 
have in doing that?” retorted Jarvis, 
as if he had forgotten so much of the 
past. 

That tobacco debt of yours.” 

Oh — that ! Ay, I remember. 
That has been settled long ago, and a 
fresh score run up,” added Jarvis slightly 
laughing. “ See here, Otto,” he con- 
tinued seriously, I have a private rea- 
son of my own for wishing the facts 
connected with that matter to be brought 
to light. In my own mind I am as sure 
who it was as though I had seen the 
money taken. Give me time and I’ll 
track it home to the right one yet.” 

“ Can’t you tell me who it was ? ” 

“ No. . No. And if I did, it would 
not particularly interest you.” 

“ Black’s wife’s dead. I hear.” 

Went off two or three months ago,” 
carelessly rejoined Jarvis. “I don’t 
think Black will last very long. He 
seems to be on nearly his last legs.” 

“ And how are the Arde Hall peo- 
ple ? ” continued Otto, privately wishing 
his idle brother would betake himself 
away and leave him to his work. 

How’s May ? ” 

“ They are all right. May is engaged 
to me.” 

No ! ” exclaimed Otto, darting a 
quiet glance at the captain. 

“ She is. Why need you be so sur- 
prised ? ” 

Because, to tell the truth, I thought 
she’d never consent to have you,” said 
Otto, candidly. He did not add the 
other thought, though, that lay in his 
mind : ‘‘ She cared only for Tom Clan- 
waring.” 

Much indebted for your good opin- 
ion,” derisively spoke Jarvis. She 
has consented ; and so you were wrong, 
you see. As for me, I'm glad the mat- 
ter’s set at rest : I have been dangling 
after her long enough.” 

“ I congratulate you, Jarvis. May 
Arde is the sweetest girl I know.” 

“ Thank you. Yes, the prospect is 


195 

not bad,*" complacently continued the 
captain. “ Ten thousand pounds set- 
tled on her ; ten thousand pounds to be 
handed over to me on the wedding-day. 
And all the rest of the property, includ- 
ing the Hall, when the old people fall 
in.” 

A widely different prospect from 
mine — who have to work hard for my 
bread and cheese ; and probably will 
have to work to the end,” returned 
Otto, with good-natured cheerfulness. 
“ You were born, I take it, under a 
luckier star than I, Jarvis.” 

Jarvis slightly nodded his head, and 
took another look at his handsome boots. 
In his opinion there could not be a more 
unlucky star than one that entailed 
work of any sort. They were inter- 
rupted by a knock at the door. 

‘‘Come in,” called out the barrister. 

A little bald-headed gentleman dress- 
ed in black, with a broad-plaited frill 
standing out from the bosom of his 
shirt, and a heavy bunch of handsome 
seals hanging, answered the mandate. 

“ Oh ! I’m glad to find you in, Mr. 
Clanwaring,” he said, standing with 
the door in his hand. “ Don’t disturb 
yourself. The sergeant is obliged to 
forestal the hour fixed for the consulta- 
tion, and name an earlier one. Four 
o’clock, instead of six. Will it suit 
you ? ” 

Otto considered. At four o’clock that 
afternoon he had intended to proceed 
elsewhere on businesf^ It was, how- 
ever, no appointment, and he could take 
another time for it. 

“ I suppose it must suit me, Mr. 
Lake,” he said aloud. “Yes. I’ll be 
over at the sergeant’s chamber at four.” 

“ That’s all, then, Mr. Clanwaring. 
Four o’clock precisely, please. I’ve 
been to the other two. Good morn- 
ing.” 

“ That was the great Sergeant Stern- 
dale’s chief clerk,” observed Otto to his 
brother. “ Lake is the cleverest little 
man in Lincoln’s Inn. Three parts of 
those written opinions of the serjeant’s, 
so renowned for their depth and wisdom, 
are h*is. It’s said he gets twelve hun- 
dred a year salary.” 

Silence set in again. Captain Clan- 
waring was sunk in a brown study ; the 
barrister went on with his parchment. 
A glint of hot sunlight took a corner of 


196 


DENE HOLLOW. 


the window, and threw its rays on the 
table almost like a burning glass. 

I am in an awful mess, Otto.” 

The acknowledgment sounded so 
strange after the former declaration of 
glowing prospects, and pei'haps so un- 
expected, that Otto looked across as if 
he hardly believed his ears. 

“ Debts again ? ” 

Jarvis nodded. ^‘Nearly done to 
death with ^em.” 

That’s what he has come about, is 
it,” thought Otto. “ I can’t help jmu, 
Jarvis,” be said aloud, forestalling any 
request of the sort. “ It’s as much as 
1 can do to get along and pay my own 
way.” 

Nobody asked you to,” retorted 
Jarvis. “ I believe I shall be able to 
help myself.” 

Otto silently wondered how. 

Do you knaw anything of a man 
named Pale ? ” 

“ Pale the money-lender ? Yes, I 
know him.” 

Had transactions with him yourself, 
perhaps ? ” went on Jarvis.” 

“ Never. Not in the way you mean. 
Why do you ask about him ? ” 

“ I want you to tell me, if you can, 
whether, or not, he is a man whose dis- 
cretion may be depended on. Is he one 
who would keep a client’s counsel ? — or 
would he go blabbing of business to 
other people ? ” 

“ I should think his discretion might 
be entirely depended on. It is the im- 
pression he gives me. I don’t know 
much of him.” 

“He might be trusted then, you 
think ? ” 

“ Yes, I do.” 

Jarvis lifted his cane on the table 
again, and stirred about some papers 
that lay in the glint of sunlight. His 
manner was very absent. 

“ What’s his precise line of business, 
this Pale’s ? ” 

“ Lending money.” 

“ Of course. But what upon ? Post 
obits ? — promissory notes ? — and — ” 

“Upon anything,” interrupted Otto. 

“ It’s all fish that comes to Pale’s net.” 

“ Just what I heard. Has heaps of 
property in his hands. Plate and dia- 
monds, and things of that kind.” 

“ I dare say. Sure to have.” 

“ Exacts hard terms, no douKt ? ” 


“ They all do that. I don’t suppose 
Pale’s worse than others. For what he 
is, they saj’' he is tolerably fair dealing.” 

“ Where does he live, this man ? ” 

“ His rooms are in Pall Mall.” 

“ Got a heap of clerks there ? ” 
questioned Jarvis, his face assuming a 
moody look, as if it did not please him 
that Mr. Pale should have “ a heap ” of 
clerks. “ Eh ? ” 

“ Got some, I suppose. I have never 
been there.” 

“ Why, I understood you to imply 
that you had done business with him ! ” 
exclaimed Jarvis, lifting his eyes. 

“My business with him had nothing 
to do with money-lending. It was of 
so strictly private a nature that I pre- 
ferred to find him out at his own resi- 
dence, rather than go to his public 
rooms.” 

Jarvis paused a moment. “ Where is 
his private residence ? ” 

“ In Goodman’s Fields,” 

“Where the deuce is ‘Goodman’s 
Fields ? ’ ” 

“ East-end way. Towards White- 
chapel.” 

“ Oh,” said Jarvis. 

“Are you going to get money from 
him, Jarvis ? ” 

“Well, he — ” another pause. “He 
has been recommended to me as a man 
likely to lend some. “ I think 1 shall 
try him.” 

“ He’ll want a first-rate security. I 
warn you of that.” 

“As if the fraternity didn’t all want 
that — and be hanged to ’em ? ” growled 
J arvis. 

“ Shall j’ou be able to give it ? ” 

“ I shall give him a bill at three 
months backed by a good name,” re- 
plied Jarvis after stopping to consider 
whether he should answer the question 
or not. “ An undeniably good name ; 
safe as the Bank of England.” 

“ And how do you propose to take up 
the bill at the three months’ end ? ” 

“ With some of the money that will 
come to me on my marriage. The knot 
will have been tied before that.” 

Otto Clanwaring laid down his pencil 
and looked at his brother. Every feel- 
ing of justice within him felt outraged. 

“ J arvis — it is of course your busi- 
ness ; not mine. But I would suffer 
any trouble rather than so foredestin 


SEEN THROUGH THE VENETIAN BLINDS. 


May Arde’s money. ^Twill be desecra- 
tion.” 

She’ll never know it. You needn’t 
preach. I should not do it but for be- 
ing compelled.” 

Suppose the marriage should never 
come oif ? ” 

J arvis turned blue with anger at the 
supposition. Suppose yon sun never 
sets ? ” said he, wrathfully. Keep 
your croaking for yourself, Otto. And, 
here — tell me how I am to ferret out 
this house of Pale’s. If I don’t find 
him in Pall Mall, I ma}'^ go there.” 

Otto wrote the directions, his brother 
standing beside him to look on. “ And 
you think he may be trusted to keep 
dark?” repeated Jarvis, as he took the 
paper. 

“ Certainly I do. Most money-lend- 
ers may be trusted for that. It is their 
interest to be silent,” added Otto. And 
the captain departed without the cere- 
mony of saying good morning. 

“ Curious that he should harp so upon 
secresy when secresy’s the rule,” thought 
the barrister as the other went down. 

He must have some especially urgent 
motive for wishing it. I. should like to 
know whose that other name is. Curi- 
ous too, that I should be going to pay 
Mr. Pale a visit myself to-day or to- 
morrow. 

But that he was so reticent by nature, 
and perhaps also that he could not hold 
his brother in any favor, Otto might 
have mentioned the latter fact. He was 
engaged in the friendly office (not as 
a barrister) of striving to establish the 
innocence of a young man upon whom 
a suspicion of forgery rested. Mr. Pale 
could materially aid him if he would : 
but to get him to do so was difficult. It 
was altogether a matter of great deli- 
cacy. 

The day went on. At four o’clock, 
Otto Clanwaring attended the chambers 
of Mr. Serjeant Sterndale. The con- 
sultation therein lasted until six, after 
which Otto took his dinner — consisting 
of two lamb chops and potatoes, sup- 
plied by his laundress. To save cost, 
he lived in his chambers. Then he in- 
dulged himself in his pipe, sitting at 
the open window in the twilight while 
he smoked it; and glancing, while he 
thought, at the redness left in the west- 
ern sky after the setting of the sun. 


197 

With his methodical habits, his in- 
dustry, and his anxiety to make use of 
every minute of his time, the barrister’s 
evenings were generally appropriated 
beforehand to some work or other. This 
evening was an exception : the changing 
of the consultation hour had put things 
out of their regular groove. When his 
pipe was smoked, Otto sat on, feeling 
himself entirely at liberty for the eve- 
ning, and something like a fish out of 
water. 

“ Why should I not go down to Pale’s 
now ? ” he suddenly exclaimed, “ I will. 
He’s nearly sure to be at home. And it 
will save time to-morrow.” 

Going down stairs and out of the 
square, he got into the line of principal 
streets, preferring their cheerful route 
to that of more obscure ones. A good 
many people were abroad that genial 
evening : hot London was strolling out 
for a breath of air. Some of them jos- 
tled Otto as they passed : he bore stead- 
ily on, and jostled in his turn. Half 
way down Cheapside, there was a stop- 
page on the pavement, caused by a 
crowd gathered round a man who had 
fallen down in a fit, or pretended fit. 
Otto was elbowing his way through it, 
just as a girl was elbowing her’s the 
other way. They met face to face, in 
the broad glare of a silversmith’s sliop : 
and Otto Clanwaring exclaimed aloud 
with surprise. It was Emma Geach. 

“Whence have you sprung? — from 
over the seas ? ” he asked ; the little 
bit of information given him by Jarvis 
that day, as to her being in Ireland, 
flashing into his mind. 

“ From over the seas or out of the 
earth,” she answered in her customary 
light and free manner. “ How are all 
the folks in your country, Mr. Clanwar- 
ing?” 

“ What have you been doing with 
yourself, and where have you been hid- 
ing all this while? ” returned Otto, pass- 
ing over her joking question for what it 
was worth. 

“ I’ve been in a trance,” said the 
girl saucily. “ Just come out on’t.” 

“ Do you know that your old home 
has had a loss ? ” continued Otto, de- 
termined to ask no more questions and 
get chafing answers. “ Black’s wife is 
dead, poor thing.” 

“ Yes, I know it,” replied the girl, 


198 


DEJSTE HOLLOW. 


her voice and face both passing into 
sadness. ‘‘ I should ha’ liked to see her 
again. But she’s better off.” 

“When are you going hack to the 
Trailing Indian ? ” 

“ That’s amid the douhtfuls, sir. 
Maybe sometime, maybe never. I get 
a bit o’ news o’ the old place once in a 
way ; but I don’t get much. It have 
been told me that Sir Dene’s breaking 
up fast.” 

“ I fear he is.” 

“ How be the Ardes ? ” she suddenly 
asked. 

“ Oh, they are all well. Miss May’s 
thinking about getting married.” 

“ Is she ? ” was the remark, evident- 
ly given in surprise. “ And who be it 
to, sir ? — Young Squire Scrope ? ” 

“ Can’t tell,” shortly returned Otto, 
for it was by no means his wish to talk 
of family matters to this damsel : in- 
deed the remark about May had slipped 
from him unintentionally as it were. 
“ Are you living in London ? ” 

“ I be lodging in it — -just now. And 
there’s my landlady a waiting for me, 
and looking cats and dogs at this hin- 
drance,” she added, “ for we he in a 
hurry to get home. Her son met with 
a accident down at the docks to-day, and 
she asked me to go along of her to see 
him.” 

Otto Clanwaring turned at the words, 
and saw a decent woman standing a 
few paces off. Before he could turn his 
head back, Miss Geach had slipped 
away, and joined her. They passed up 
Cheapside together, the girl flinging a 
nod and a good night back to Otto in 
her freedom. He went on his w^ay, his 
mind full of the encounter. 

“ I suppose she has been in Ireland 
and come back from it,” ran his 
thoughts. “ She’s looking well, where- 
ever she may have been.” 

Pursuing his route on foot, by the 
time he got to his destination, which lay 
in the neighborhood of Mansell Street, 
he^felt somewhat flagged, and devoutly 
hoped Mr. Pale would be at home, so as 
not to have had the walk for nothing. 
The money lender’s house was little to 
look at outwardly : it made the side of 
a smdll paved court ; the opposite side 
of it being a dead wall. The court was 
no thoroughfare ; and nobody had any 
business in it, unless it was with Mr. 


Pale’s homestead. In fact, it was alto- 
gether as private a place as might be 
found in the heart of London. The 
door, level with the pavement, was in 
the middle of the dwelling, a parlor 
window on either side it. 

“ Oh come, I think he is at home,’^ 
said Otto Clanwaring, seeing a strong 
light shining behind the white blind of 
the first window, as he turned up the 
court. For Mr. Pale was a bachelor, 
and the family consisted of himself 
alone. 

Now, perhaps for the reason that the 
court was considered safe from passers-by 
who might look in ; or else through some 
careless inadvertence of some attending 
servant, the white roller blind behind 
had not been drawn to its full extent. 
Venetian blinds ran across the bottom of 
the window ; and the white blind left 
about three or four inches of their space 
uncovered. The staves happened to be 
turned straightwise, so that the room 
was exposed. 

Otto Clanwaring halted, and glanced 
in. Not from any intention of slyly 
spying — whatever might be the failings 
of some of his family in this respect, he 
was too honest for it — but simply to as- 
sure himself that the money lender was 
at home. Yes. There sat Mr. Pale ; 
his grey hair close to a shining and bril- 
liant lamp. At the same small round 
table sat another man, to whom Otto’s 
eyes naturally turned. It was Captain 
Clanwaring. 

It is to be feared that Mr. Otto Clan- 
waring burst out with a most unorthodox 
word. Very far indeed was it from his 
purpose to interfere in any way with his 
brother's affairs ; he would a great deal 
rather keep aloof from them : and he 
certainlj^ had not cast so much as a 
thought to the possibility that Jarvis 
might choose this night hour for a visit 
to Mr. Pale. After all, Otto felt that he 
might have taken his walk for nothing. 

“ If I thought that his business was 
likely to be over soon, I’d wait about in 
some back street and come again after he 
is gone,” soliloquized Otto. “ It wouldn’t 
do to let him see me : he’d jump to the 
conclusion that I had come down to spy 
upon him : Jarvis was always suspicious. 
Wonder if he’ll be long?” 

Still with no idea of prying, only to' 
gather a hint, if might be, whether the 


BEEN WITH THE OLD SQUIRE IN THE NIGHT. 199 


interview was, or was not, coming to an 
end, Otto looked in again. They were 
seated facing each otlier at the table, 
sideways to tlie window and very near it, 
for the room was small. It almost 
seemed as if Otto made a third at the 
meeting, so close and plain was every- 
thing. 

He gave a sudden start. A start of 
simple, disbelieving astonishment in the 
! first place. Mr. Pale, lifting something 
into the lamp’s rays, and gently waving 
it, a great flood of dazzling light flashed 
forth. Otto recognized the family dia- 
mond case with Sir Dene’s arms upon it, 
and the family diamonds. 

Only astonishment at first. It was 
succeeded by a sensation of dismay, 
bringing pain and shame. Too surely he 
drew the right conclusion — Jarvis was 
raising money on these, the Clanwaring 
diamonds. 

Valuable diamonds. Worth at least 
some two or three thousand pounds. 
They had not seen the light since the 
death of Sir Dene’s wife so many years 
before. They went with the title, and 
would lapse to young Dene when he 
should come into it. 

“ Has he stolen them ? ” wondered 
Otto bitterly, wiping his face from the 
moisture which shame had brought out 
there. But no : only for a moment did 
he think so ill as that : good ^ense led 
him to what was in fact the truth — Lady 
Lydia had lent them to him for his tem- 
porary need. But she must have done 
it without the cognizance of Sir Dene ; 
so it was not much better than stealing, 
after all. Otto felt that he would rather 
have had his arm cut off than see this. 

The impulse crossed him to go in, de- 
nounce Jarvis for a villain, and secure 
the jewels from desecration. Only for 
an instant. He saw how impolitic and 
impracticable such a cc^urse would be ; 
how much worse it would make it all. 
No, there was nothing for him but to be 
silent ; to be a tacit party to the trans- 
action, and to hug his shame. 

He continued looking. He saw no 
meanness in that now. Mr. Pale 
clasped up the case again — Otto heard 
the sharp click where he stood — put it 
inside a small bureau, and brought some 
bank notes from the same receptacle. 
Not many; three or four. Then he 
wrote out a cheque ; and handed both 


cheque and notes to Jarvis. What the 
amount in the whole was Otto could not 
see — and he resented it. The next^ 
thing, Jarvis wrote something, which 
Mr. Pale took possession of. This seemed 
to complete the transaction ; Captain 
Clanwaring rose, and was coming swiftly 
forth. 

The barrister glided out of the court, 
and bolted into the dark passage of a 
friendly shop that was putting up its 
shutters. It was a blow that had struck 
home to the family pride of Otto Clan- 
waring. 


CHAPTER XXXIT. 

BEEN WITH THE OLD SQUIRE IN THE 
NIGHT. 

Knock, knock, knock ! 

The knocking, very gentle, was at Sir 
Dene’s chamber door. Gander stood 
there, in the dull light of the November 
morning. “ If my bell does not ring, 
call me at nine o’clock,” were Sir Dene’s 
orders to Gander the previous night. 
Very unusual orders indeed. 

Eor Sir Dene, unless he was actually 
ill, liked to be up betimes as of yore. 
The once hale old man was breaking 
up fast : more than age was telling 
upon him. Generally speaking his bell 
rang for. bis shaving water long before 
eight. 

He had felt out of sorts the previous 
day. Not ill : out of sorts,” he an- 
swered when questioned. News had 
come in of a sad stage coach accident 
on the awkward old bridge at Powick : 
and it had recalled to Sir Dene all the 
back trouble of the accidents on Dene 
Hollow. Not that the trouble needed 
recalling : more or less, it was ever 
present with him. 

Knock, knock, knock. Rather louder. 

“ Come in, then. Can’t 3 ’’e hear ? ” 

B 3 ' which irritable answer Gander 
found his master must have spoken be- 
fore. The feeble voice had failed to 
catch his ear. In went the old serving 
man — for Gander was himself getting 
tolerably old now — in the striped jacket 
he always, winter and sumner, wore in 
a morning. Sir Dene, a cotton night- 
cap on, with a hanging tassel, raised 
his head on the pillow. 


200 


DENE HOLLOW. 


Wliere’s the hot water ? Por 
Gander had come empty handed. 

“ I’ve not brought it, Sir Dene. I 
thought maybe ye’d take a bit o’ break- 
fast afore stirring.” 

Now Sir Dene was feeling weak, 
sliaky, feverish : almost as though he 
should like some breakfast first. But 
he had an unconquerable aversion to 
giving way. 

“ I don’t know. Gander, I’d like to 
be up and doing as long as I can.” 

It’s a regular stinger of a morning, 
.master. Wind nor-east, and enough to 
cut one in two. Air bleak, and as dull 
as ditchwater.” 

“ Is it ? We don’t have the fine 
weather we used,” remarked Sir Dene 
— as many another old man is apt to 
say and think. “ There’s no good 
bright days now, Gander ; no spark- 
ling, crisp, sunshiny frost. What’s 
become of ’em ? ” 

“ It have been a dull autumn ; and it 
seems to be a setting in for a dull win- 
ter,” returned Gander. “ I’ll fetch you 
up a cup o’ tea, Sir Dene. It’ll do ye 
good.” 

Quitting the chamber before Sir Dene 
could make any denial, he speedily re- 
appeared with a small tray of breakfast. 
A cup of tea, hot buttered toast, and 
an egg. Sir Dene sat partly up; drank 
some of the tea, and then lay down 
again. 

You’ll try a bit o’ the toast, sir ? ” 

A slight wave of the hand answered * 
him. Gander, who must have been ill 
indeed not to relish his own breakfast, 
pressed it with concern. 

“ You’d relish it, I think, Sir Dene. 
It have got plenty o’ butter on’t.” 

I’ve no appetite. Gander. I think 
my time’s coming.” 

Gander understood the allusion — that 
he meant for death — and felt a little 
uncomfortable. As he stood looking 
down at Sir Dene, he saw that the 
once fresh and healthy face had an 
unusual pallor on it. Between the 
white nightcap and the white pillow it 
looked nearly as white as they did. 

“ You’ll be better after breakfast, Sir 
Dene. It’s this nasty grey east-winded 
morning, as is upsetting everybody. I 
wish you’d try the toast.” 

“ Squire Arde came and paid me a 
visit in the night. Gander. I. think we 
shall soon be together again.” 


Gander could not make out what Sir 
Dene was rambling about. He had 
drawn up the blinds and now glanced 
round to the grey skies he had been 
talking of — as if that would help him. 

“ The old squire, you know. Gander. 
He looked just as he used to look ; he’d 
got his pepper-and-salt suit on, and the 
little old drab overcoat atop. We were 
having a comfortable chat together, him 
and me. ’Twas like old times.” 

“It must ha’ been a dream, master.” 

“Well, I suppose it was. It seemed 
like reality. As happy as kingfishers, 
we were, us two, chatting together. It 
seemed good to be with him.” 

“ This toast ’ll be cold, sir. 1 know a 
bit on’t udlbriug you round.” 

“ Won’t be long,^ I take it. Gander, 
before I go to him. It’s getting a’most 
time. God, He knows best. But I 
don’t think it’ll be long.” 

Drinking up the rest of the tea. Gan- 
der dexterously put some toast into the 
old man’s hand in exchange for the cup. 
Sir Dene eat it up : perhaps half un- 
conciously. Nevertheless, he did seem 
better after it, and then said he would 
take some more tea. 

“ It was that dratted coach, a over- 
turning of itself on Powich Bridge, as 
upset him,” soliloquized Gander, going 
out with the cup to replenish it. “ But 
there’s times now when he’s not a bit 
like himself. Fancy his saying he’ve 
had a visit from old Arde ! ” 

The postman’s ring echoed through 
the hall as Gander crossed it : and the 
locked bag was taken up as usual to 
Lady Lydia. In going back with the 
tea. Gander halted at my Lady’s door 
to enquire if there were any letters for 
his master. 

Two. Sir Dene looked at their hand- 
writing as he sipped his tea. They 
were from two of his grandchildren : 
Dene the heir, and the barrister, Otto. 
Laying them on the counterpane un- 
opened, he began to eat another bit of 
toast, the faithful servant standing by. 

“ Ay. They think it’s right to show 
the old grandfather that they don’t^ for- 
get him, these young blades ! But 
there’s one of ’em that doesn’t write, 
Gander.” 

Gander knew quite well to whom 
this alluded. Sir Dene was in the habit 
of talking to him of things that he 
never mentioned to other people. 


BEEN WITH THE OLD SQUIRE IN THE NIGHT. 201 


‘‘Well, Sir Dene, — I’ve said it afore, 
and I says it again — my own opinion is, 
as Mr. Tom have wrote, and hi-s letter 
must ha’ got dropped into the sea a 
crossing it.” 

“ Nonsense ! ” peevishly cried Sir 
Dene. “ Letters don’t get lost like tliat.” 

“Tain’t like Mr. Tom to bear malice ; 
and I know he doiiH bear it. I’d write 
him a word. Sir Dene, if I was you, and 
tell him to come. Likel}^ he don’t dare 
to make no move without a word from 
you.” 

It was just what had been, off and on, 
hovering in Sir Dene’s mind for some 
weeks past — to write and summons Tom. 
Perhaps it wanted but this word of 
urging to put it in practice. “ I think 
I will,” he said. “ He has been ban- 
ished long enough for punishment. I’ll 
do it as soon as I’m up. Gander.” 

And, having an object to accomplish. 
Sir Dene got up at once. When shaved 
and dressed, he sat down by the blazing 
fire in the next room, and penned to Tom 
a letter of recall, short, kind, and per- 
emptory. His hands shook, but the 
words were clear. Folding it up, as 
letters were folded in those days when 
envelopes were unknown, he sealed it 
with a big red seal and stamped it with 
the Clanwaring arms. Gander holding 
the lighted taper. When the seal was 
cold he dipped his pen in the ink and 
began to address it. 

Tom Clanwaring Esquire.” Thus 
far had Sir Dene proceeded, when he 
looked up. 

“ What’s the direction. Gander?” 

“ I’m sure I don’t know,” said Gander. 
“ I heard it once— a place with a crack- 
jaw name.” ^ 

Sir Dene laid down the pen in con- 
sternation. Was Tom in some unknown 
region of Ireland where he could neither 
be written to nor got at? Eeassurance 
came to Sir Dene. 

“ My lady must know it, Gander. 
It’s where some of her people live. Go 
and ask her for it.” 

Away went Gander. Never a sus- 
picion of any treacherj’" on my lad 3'’8 
part, in regard to Tom, had occurred to 
this simple man and his simple master. 
Simple in all confiding honor. My lady 
and her eldest son were cosily sitting to- 
gether at a well-spread breakfast table, 
by a blazing fire. My lady in a kind 


of brown “ saque,” the pattern of which 
might have been taken from a pillow 
case ; Jarvis in a flower}'’ dressing-gown. 
Their conversation was brought to a 
sudden standstill as the servant went in. 

“ My lady, will you be so good as give 
me Mr. Tom’s direction ? ” 

For answer, my lady, a little taken to, 
stared at Gander up and down. 

“ Sir Dene has sent me for it,” added 
the man. 

“ What does Sir Dene want with it ? ” 
she questioned. 

“ I b’lieve it’s to address a letter to 
him,” said Gander, who never was too 
obliging to my lady. “ Sir Dene is 
waiting for it now, please.” 

Quite equal to the occasion was Lady 
Lydia, without the help of that inter- 
changed glance with her son. “ I must 
search in my desk for it. Gander. My 
best regards to Sir Dene, and I’ll send 
it to him almost immediately.” 

“ The goat is being recalled,” remark- 
ed Jarvis when they were alone. 

“ I dare say. He is not., coming, 
though.” 

“ ’T would hardly be policy. You 
must fail to find the address.” 

“ I’ll give one that won’t reach him,” 
whispered Lady Lydia. 

She soon appeared in Sir Dene’s 
room, and found him restlessly waiting 
— for he retained a great deal of his 
old impatience still. On a piece of 
paper in her hand was written a long 
’address that Gander might have decid- 
edly pronounced to be “crackjaw.” 

“ Dear Sir Dene ! How are you to- 
day ? Tom’s address, do you want ? 
Here it is.” 

Sir Dene read it over, and slowly 
copied it on the letter. 

“ You take care of this and post it 
when you are at Worcester to-day. 
Gander,” said he, handing the letter 
to the man. 

“ It can go in the bag. Sir Dene,” 
interposed my lady. “ I shall have 
letters to sent off myself to-day.” ” 

“Gander’s going to Worcester: he’ll 
post it there,” persisted Sir Dene, real- 
ly from no other motive than a spice of 
obstinacy. And Lady Lydia turned 
green as she thought how very near the 
letter would have been to reaching Tom, 
but for her precaution in regard to the 
address. 


202 


DENE HOLLOW. 


“Have you been writing to Tom at 
last, Sir Dene ? ” 

“ I've been writing for him to come 
home, Lydia : he has been banished 
long enough. I can’t help it if it of- 
fends you. I don’t think — I don’t 
think I shall be very much longer 
among you all, and I’d like to have 
him here. He was poor Geoff^s legacy 
to me, you know.” 

“ Oh Sir Dene, don’t say that. You’ll 
be among us for years yet, I hope.” 

“ It strikes me not. I’ve been with 
old Squire Arde three parts o’ the 
night : a token, I take it, that I shall 
soon be with him in reality.” 

Lady Lydia stared a little, and 
glanced at Gander.” 

“ I ve not got much to keep me here 
now,” went on Sir Dene. “ But I 
should like to live to see Tom come 
home.” 

“ You have your letters from Dene 
and Otto,” observed Lady Lydia, by 
way of drowning the last remark. 
“ What do they say ? ” 

“ They don’t sa}^ much. Dene and 
Charley are coming for the wedding. 

Otto Well 1 have not read 

Otto’s, have I, Gander?” 

“ I didn’t see you read it. Sir Dene,” 
replied Gander, who was busying him- 
self about the room. “ The letter’s at 
your elbow, sir.” 

“ It’s not often Otto writes,” remark- 
ed Sir Dene, breaking the seal of the 
barrister’s letter. “ His time’s too well 
taken up : if Jarvis had only half his 
patience, ’twould be better for him, Ly- 
dia. Otto will make a name in the 
world, once he can work himself into 
note — get on to be a judge, I shouldn’t 
wdnder.” 

“ He was of a plodding nature, even 
as a boy,” rather scornfully rejoined 
Lady Lydia. She had no superfluous 
love for her son, Otto.” 

“Now, look here!” cried Sir Dene, 
as he read his letter. “ Here’s Tom 
been writing from Ireland to Otto to 
ask how I am, and saying he cannot get 
to hear a word of Beechhurst Dene 
from anybody. That w^as two months 
ago, Otto says. So Tom doesn’t quite 
forget the old man I ” . 

Lady Lydia, taking in the sense of 
the words as well as her anger allowed, 
felt that she should like to annihilate 
that blundering fool, Otto. 


“But why the deuce doesn’t Tom 
write direct, and ask ? ” burst forth Sir 
Dene, rather .explosively. “It’s his 
temper keeps him from it : that’s what 
it is. He must have got a touch of the 
Clan waring obstinacy, after all ; though 
poor Geoffry hadn’t. Any way, he’ll 
have my letter now as soon as the post 
can take it to him. Don’t you forget it. 
Gander.” 

“ No danger. Sir Dene. I’ll be too 
glad to see Master Tom back at home 
myself, to forget it,” added bold Gan- 
der for the particular benefit of my 
lady. “ The house have never been the 
same without him.” 

“ And see that his room is got ready, 
and all that. Gander, mind.” 

“ It’s always a ready and waiting for 
him, Sir Dene.” 

“ What else does Otto say, Sir 
Dene ? ” inquired Lady Lydia, with an 
impassive face. 

“What else? Well, he says he 
shall hope to be down at the wedding. 
There : you may take his letter, away 
and read it if you like.” 

The wedding, thus mentioned by Sir 
Dene’s grandsons, was that of Captain 
Clanwaring. For May Arde, yielding 
to persecution (as she regarded it) and 
fate, had at length been won over to fix 
the probable time. When told by her 
father and mother that it must take 
place before the year was out, and bade 
to say when, she answered in her des- 
peration, “ After Christmas, then.” 

Her conscience smote her as she said 
it : smote her of sin. For, down deep 
in her heart lingered vividly as ever the 
image of that scapegrace Tom : and in 
spite of her secret prayers, her tears, 
her strivings, she could not thrust it 
out. Since that summer evening’s visit 
to the Trailing Indian, not a doubt had 
rested on her mind of Tom Clanwaring’s 
disloyalty to her, and of his utter worth- 
lessness : and yet — love him less she 
could not. “I may be able to forget 
him, once I am married,” she said to 
herself — over and over again : “ and — 
as good marry Jarvis as any body 
else ! ” 

And, in a short while after making 
the concession. May absolutely began 
to regard it as a boon, and to look for- 
ward to the marriage with something 
like a satisfaction. Not in the marriage 
itself, poor girl j but as a release from 


BEEN WITH THE OLD SQUIRE IN THE NIGHT. 203 


uncertainty. The unrest of her life 
was so great as to be absolute torment. 
Thus matters were arranged to the sat- 
isfaction of everybody : other people 
were all agog with pleasure ; and on 
May’s part there was no thought of 
drawing back. Sir Dene liked the pro- 
posed union immensely. He privately 
deemed May a great deal too good for 
Jarvis: but that was the Ardes’ busi- 
ness, not his. Lady Lydia was in the 
seventh heaven of delight : and the 
Squire’s wife wrote sundry letters to in- 
timate friends, apprising them of the 
completion of the contract of marriage 
between Captain Jarvis Clanwaring and 
her beloved daughter, Millicent Mary 
Arde. The reader will therefore readi- 
ly understand how objectionable would 
be the return of Tom Clanwaring to up- 
set, or possibly to upset, the onward 
stream of events, coursing along so 
smoothly. 

“ Once get the w^edding over, and he 
shall come, if it so must be,” said Lady 
Lydia to Jarvis; “but that must take 
place in safety first.” 

Jarvis resented the intimation. It 
was as much as to insinuate that May 
cared for Tom still, more than she did 
for him : his hair and his temper alike 
bristled up. The captain was a very 
attentive lover ; never a day passed but 
he would be at the hall once or ‘twice. . 
But any attempt to enter on the endear- 
ments lovers suppose thej’- have a right 
to offer, was so promptly discouraged by 
May ; in fact, he saw they would be so 
evidently distasteful, that the gallant 
captain prudently confined his. display 
of affection to warm handshakes. Now 
and again he ran up to town for three 
or four days ; and May would then feel 
free as a bird in the air. 

In the afternoon of the cold and 
bleak November day, spoken of above, 
IMay, well muffled up, returned to the 
Hall in her father’s open carriage, hav- 
ing been with him to Worcester. 
Whether it was her chronic state of low 
spirits and the inanition the}’’ caused, 
that rendered her chilly, certain it was, 
she now always felt more or less cold. 
Her errand to Worcester had been to 
the dressmakers ; to try on certain of 
the dresses that were being prepared for 
the wedding. Mrs. Arde, suffering from 
some temporary indisposition, had re- 
mained at home. 


You look cold, May,” said the 
Squire, as he gave his hand to help her 
down. 

“ Do I, papa ? It is cold. I think I 
will run about a bit to warm myself, be- 
fore going in.” 

May’s “ running about to warm her- 
self” consisted in a listless kind of 
slow sauntering. She was not in spirits 
to run. Walking about the premises, 
back and front, buried in her over sad 
thoughts, she was about to turn in at 
the gate leading to the kitchen garden, 
when she saw Cole, the farrier, turn out 
of the stables. A favorite carriage 
horse of the Squire’s was ill at the time. 
May waited at the gate till the man 
came up. 

“ Is old Jack better ? ” she asked. 

“ Not much, Miss May. I’ve been 
giving him another ball.” 

“ What a cold day it is !” cried May 
— and she shivered a little as she spoke. 

“ Coldish,” returned the man. “ It 
strikes me we shall have a hard winter 
of it. Miss May.” 

“ I hope not — for the poor’s sake,” 
was May’s answer. Her sweet brown 
eyes, with a whole flood of sadness ly- 
ing in their depths, went straight out 
to his. Cole and Miss May had been 
on quite familiar terms always, so to 
say : the result of his sister’s being the 
young lady’s attendant. When Miss 
May was a little tottering damsel in 
back - strings, Harry Cole, the good- 
natured, laughing stripling, would toss 
the little lady “ up to the moon.” They 
were great friends still. 

“ I hear Mr. Tom’s sent for back. 
Miss May.” 

At the unexpected words, a rush of 
crimson dyed May’s face. Harry Cole, 
who had more innate delicacy than 
many gentlemen, had stooped to get 
some spots of mud off his trousers at 
the ankle, and missed the sight. 

“ Indeed,” said May, constraining her 
voice to indifference. 

“ While I was at the Dene just now. 
Gander got in from Worcester. He 
told me he had been posting a letter 
for Mr. Tom, that Sir Dene has wrote 
to call him home again. It’s too bad to 
have kept him over in that Irish place 
so long. Miss May.” 

“ They say it has been for punish, 
ment,” returned May, fiddling with the 
latch of the gate. 


204 


DENE HOLLOW. 


“ I know they sa}’' it. Any way, 
IMiss May, that does for an excuse. 
Punishment for what, I wonder ? 

“ All kinds of things were laid to his 
charge.” 

“Well, so they were. Miss May. 
But they didn’t go down with them 
that knew him.” 

May felt as if her life’s blood were 
coursing about anyhow. As Susan said. 
Cole had never been able to see a fault 
in Tom Clanwaring. 

“ There was that bag of money, you 
know. That ivas absurd.” 

“ Oh dear yes,” answered Cole with 
a laugh. “ And lots more beside that. 
Some things are believed in to this day 
as if they were gospel. Mr. Tom’s one 
person and I be another. Miss May : 
but I know this — that if it had been 
me, I should have come back and faced 
my enemies long ago. Any way, I 
hope he’ll soon be here now.” 

“ Susan has got the toothache,” said 
May, by way of turning off the subject. 

“ Serve her right : why doesn’t she 
get it took out ? ” said Cole, who had 
none too much sympathy with Susan : 
she, in the right of her superior years, 
having been accustomed to domineer 
over him from his 1 childhood upwards 
in the most unscrupulous manner. 
“ I’ve told her. Miss May, and others 
have told her, that she’ll get no proper 
rest till she’s got rid of the tooth : but 
she is just as pig-headed over it — ” 

“ Is that you, Harry Cole ? Come 
here.” 

Cole turned at the calling voice, to 
see the Squire. Touching his hat to the^ 
Squire’s daughter, he hastened away. 

“ Sent for at last, is he ! ” thought 
May. “ But I don’t think he will dare 
to come. Oh dear ! what an unhappy 
thing this life is ! ” 

She went indoors at once, too misera- 
ble to stay out. Utterly wretched was 
she, half reckless; and felt that she 
would give all the chance of future hap- 
piness in this life, to get away from mar- 
riage and Jarvis Clanwaring. Not that 
there was the smallest thought that she 
could. Fate was fate, and she might not 
turn aside from it. Susan Cole, her 
apron held up to her cheek, came for- 
ward to meet her in the hall. 

“ Here’s Captain Clanwaring a wait- 
ing for you in the little parlor, Miss 
May.” 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

OVER THE CLARET CUP. 

“ It seems very odd. Gander.” 

“ Never a answer to it of any sort, 
Mr. Otto; neither of coming nor writ- 
ing. Never no more notice took on’t 
than if it had been dirt.” 

“ Well, I cannot understand it.” 

The glitter of plate and glass was on 
the supper table, at which Otto Clan- 
waring sat. He laid down his knife and 
fork to talk to the old serving man, the 
butler at Beechhurst Dene, who stood 
close to him. Gander’s eager face was 
bent forward with excitement under the 
wax lights. 

It was the Wednesday before Christ- 
mas, and Otto Clanwaring had just ar- 
rived at the Dene for two purposes : to 
kill, as may be said, two birds with one 
stone. The one to spend, as usual, the 
Christmas-tide ; the other to assist in 
celebrating the marriage of Captain 
Clanwaring. 

The wedding was fixed for Tuesday, 
the twenty-seventh of December. Miss 
Arde had held to her original determin- 
ation — not to be married before Christ- , 
mas. Captain Clanwaring pleaded for 
an earlier period in vain : and was at 
length fain to show himself grateful for 
the tardy one ultimately fixed. So the 
preparations were put in hand, and the 
invitations sent out. 

Christmas Da}" would fall this year on 
a Sunday. This, you understand, was 
the week preceding it. On Monday, the 
nineteenth, Squire Arde went to London 
on business connected with his daugh- 
ter’s settlements, and also to procure the 
marriage license. He intended to re- 
turn by the Thursday night’s mail, so as 
to be at home on Friday morning ; which 
would be the day before Christmas Eve. 
The Hall was in the full swing of pre- 
paration for the festivities attendant on 
the wedding. Beechhurst Dene had 
made ready, too, in anticipation of its 
expected guests. 

Mrs. Letsom and her children had ac- 
companied Otto from London. It had 
not been Otto’s intention to quit his 
work until the Friday, but his sister ap- 
pealed to him to accompany her ; and 
she would not start later. Colonel Let- 
som was in India with his regiment. 
They took the day coach to Worcester, 
and thence drove over to the Denej 


OVER THE CLARET CUP. 


reaching it as the night clocks were 
striking ten, amidst a sharp fall of snow. 

Sir Dene, weak in health, subdued in 
spirit, but dressed with extreme care as 
usual, his coat blue, bis fine white hair 
(scanty now) powdered, sat in the large 
drawing-room to receive them. Lady 
Lydia was wdth him, and also a shrunk- 
en-looking little lady in grey silk with 
hair as white as Sir Dene’s, and a close 
white net cap on with satin bows. It 
was Miss Clewer : sister of Sir Dene’s 
late wife. The reader had the pleasure 
of once seeing her — at that stormy in- 
terview that witnessed the turning out 
of poor Geoifry. She was considerably 
turned seventy ; but she had come post- 
ing over in her carriage-and-four from 
her residence in Gloucestshii^, to be 
present at the first marriage that was to 
take place amid her grand-nepbew's. 
The nephews and Louisa Letsom called 
her Aunt Ann, just as their fathers had 
done. 

During the comruotion caused by the 
entrance of the travellers, Jarvis came 
in, the bridegroom elect ; came in from 
his usual evening visit to the Hall. 
In spite of the elaboration of his get- 
ting up, the curled hair, the shining 
moustache, and all the rest of the at- 
tractions, Otto thought he looked strange- 
ly haggard. Almost as much so as Sir 
Dene. And Sir Dene’s looks had struck 
the barrister painfully. 

“ How dreadfully he is changed, 
mother,” whispered Otto, under cover of 
the bustle. 

‘‘ Changed ! ” repeated Lady Lydia, 
her eyes and thoughts on her well-be- 
loved son, the gallant captain. “ Who’s 
changed ? ” 

The poor old grandfather.” 

Oh. He. He is getting on for 
eighty, Otto. You cannot expect him 
to be blooming for ever.” 

‘‘It’s not exactly that — blooming. 
There’s so intense a sadness on his face. 
He looks just as though he were worn 
with sorrow.” 

“ Did you ever see such a shrivelled 
up mummy as old Aunt Ann ! ” returned 
my lady, behind her fan. “ If you’ll be- 
lieve me, Otto, she has brought a cat and 
a parrot with her and two maids : one 
for herself, the other for the animals.” 

“ She has never had children, you see, 
mother,” was Otto’s considerate answer. 


205 

“When we live a lonely life, we are apt 
to make pets for ourselves.” 

Gander had supper ready laid in the 
dining-room. Mrs. Letsom — her head 
aching intolerably from the cold and the 
very long journey, for they had left Lon- 
don at six in the morning — declined to 
take any, saying she would rather go at 
once to bed : so Otto went in to his sup- 
per alone. During which he and Gan- 
der had a dish of confidential chat to- 
gether, after the custom of old times. 
They were talking of Tom Cl an waring. 
The summons sent to Tom by Sir Dene 
had brought forth no response what- 
ever: as Gander was telling. 

“ I don’t believe he ever got it,” ex- 
claimed Otto. 

“ He must ha’ got it,” returned Gan- 
der resentfully. “Don’t I tell ye, Mr. 
Otto, that I put it myself into the slit 
o’ tne box at Worcester? As good 
suppose that the mail didn’t go out, as 
that there letter didn’t go along of it. 
Try a bit o’ that raised-pie, sir.” 

Otto shook his head. Pies so late at 
night were too heavy for him. “ If he 
did get the letter and could not respond 
to it in person, he might have written 
to Sir Dene.” 

“ That’s what Sir Dene says. It 
have tried him more nor anything, 
a’raost that went afore it, Mr. Otto. 
For days and days, ay and weeks, after 
there was time for Mr. Tom to get here, 
Sir Dene was waiting and watching for 
him. ‘ Perhaps he’ll be here by morn- 
ing, Gander,’ he’d say to me when he 
went to bed at night; and i’ the morn- 
ing the first question ’ud be, ‘ Gander, 
has he come.’ It has just been like a 
heart-break to him.” 

Otto Clanwaring, his supper finished, 
leaned back in his chair. There was 
something in all this that greatly puz- 
zled him. 

“ To be recalled was all he wanted ; 
I am sure of it,” remarked the barris- 
ter. “ I cannot think why he should 
not have come.” 

Heither could Gander. Neither could 
Sir 'Dene. Neither, truth to say, could 
many other people. Sir Dene supposed 
that Tom was too conscious of his un- 
orthodox doings in connection with the 
Trailing Indian, to show his face again 
yet awhile : and Sir Dene resented it 
accordingly. 


206 


DE^E HOLLOW. 


The Chinese have a noted proverb : 

To expect one who does not come ; 
To lie in bed and not to sleep; To serve 
and not , to be advanced, are three things 
enough to kill a man.’^ 

It would almost seem as if the non- 
arrival of his favorite grandson were 
killing Sir Dene. But the yearning 
wish to see him, the deferred hope, the 
grievous disappointment were giving 
place now to angry implacability. 

I never thought as Mr. Tom was 
one to resent affronts in this fashion,” 
spoke Gander, beginning to remove the 
supper things. “Poor Mr. Geoffry 
wouldn’t ha’ done it.” 

“Nor I. He has the most forgiving 
disposition in the world. Besides ” 

Otto stopped. The door was pushed 
open, and Sir Dene came tottering in, 
leaning on his stick. 

“ I hope you’ve got what you like, 
Otto. There’s been nobody to take it 
with you.” 

“ I ve done famously, grandfather. 
No, thank you ; no more. I never dare 
take much late at night, or I should get 
in for a headache on the morrow. Gan- 
der and I were talking about Tom, sir. 
It seems a very strange thing that 
he—” 

“ Don’t speak of him to me ; don’t 
mention him in my presence,” roared 
Sir Dene, lifting his stick menacingly 
at an imaginary Tom in the distance. 
“ If he were to attempt to enter Beech- 
hurst Dene now, my servants should 
thrust him forth. Never again ; never 
again.” 

“ There’s something or other wants 
explaining in all this,” thought Otto. 
“ However, it is no business of mine,” 
he mentally concluded, with his usual 
rather selfish indifference to other peo- 
ple’s interests. 

Gander brought in some mulled 
claret in a silver cup, and Sir Dene and 
Otto sat over the fire and sipped it. 
Ijittle things troubled Sir Dene now : 
and he began mentioning the state of 
expectancy he had been in all day, look- 
ing for his two eldest nephews. Dene 
and Charles. Eldest in point of prece- 
dence, youngest in age. They were to 
have arrived at the Dene that morning 
from Scotland : and had not come. 

“ Sure they’ve never been so foolish 
as to take ship — which Dene’s fond of 


doing in summer,” said Sir Dene rather 
fractiously. “ They might be kept out 
at sea a couple of weeks, if they’ve 
done that.” 

“ They’d be sure to come by land, sir, 
at this season of the year ; and with 
time limited,” retijrned Otto. “ Is 
their mother coming with them ? ” 

“ She can’t,” said Sir Dene. “ I’m 
sorry for it ; for she’s a great favorite of 
mine, and I’ve not seen her for these 
two 3’ears. There’s more things than 
one going contrary just now, Otto.” 

“ But why can she not come, sir ? ” 

“ Because she’s ill. I b’lieve it’s in- 
termittent fever, or something of that. 
D’ye think the boys can get hero to- 
night, Otto ? ” he added after a pause. 

“Well — of course it is possible,” re- 
plied Otto, in some consideration : and 
he felt sure now that the old man was 
sitting up, expecting them. “ They’d 
come by coach no doubt to the nearest 
place to this that the stage touches at, 
and then post on. I don’t think they’d 
be likely to come so late as this, grand- 
father. We shall see them in the 
morning.” 

“ Ay, I suppose one must give ’em 
up for to-night,” conceded Sir Dene. 
“ And how is the world using you, 
Otto ? Are you getting on ? ” 

“ Yes, I am getting on, grandfather,” 
returned Otto, proud in his independent 
spirit of being able to say it. “ My 
name is becoming known, and business 
drops in. No fear now but I shall make 
my way ; and make it well.” 

“ Ay, I always said you would, give 
you time, though you have been so kept 
back by struggles and expenses,” ob- 
served Sir Dene. “ You have been 
steady and hard-working from the first, 
Otto : and those who are so are sure to 
get on. It is the conviction that has 
lain on my mind of your steady perse- 
verance, my lad, that has induced me to 
help you so readily in your embarrass- 
ments.” 

Happening to be holding the claret 
cup to his lips at that moment, Otto 
looked at Sir Dene over its brim. He 
did not quite understand. 

“I have had no embarrassments, sir,” 
he said as he put it down. 

“Well, expenses then: I suppose I 
ought not to say embarrassments. 
Whatever they were, I only felt they 


OYER THE CLARET CUP. 207 


were legitimate. And I let you have 
the money with a very different feeling 
from any I ever let your spendthrift 
brother have ; I can tell you that.” 

Less and less did Otto understand. 
“ I have not had any money from jmu 
since you first started me in life, grand- 
father. There are moments,” he added 
with a slight laugh, “ when I feel 
proud of that fact.- At least I am 
thankful for it.” 

“ What do you call your first starting 
in life ? ” cried Sir Dene, looking hard 
at his grandson. 

“ After I had kept my terms and was 
called to the Bar, you generously put a 
cheque for five hundred pounds into my 
hand, sir. To start me in my profes- 
sion, as you called it.” 

Well ? ” 

“ Well, it did start me, grandfather. 
I set up my chambers with it — that 
didn’t cost much ; for all the furniture 
in them, bed included, is not worth 
twenty pounds. And the rest I hus- 
banded, and lived as economically upon 
as I could until work came in. I have 
never had cause to ask you for more, 
grandfather ; and I never have asked 
it.” 

Don’t quibble, my lad. If you’ve 
not asked, yourself, for it, you have had 
it.” 

“ Had what, sir ? ” 

“Had jvhat — why money. And I 
say, Otto, I have given it you with 
more satisfaction than any ever given to 
Jarvey.” 

“ But grandfather, I have not had 
any from you at all, I am happy to say. 
Except that first five hundred pounds.” 

Sir Dene and his grandson were star- 
ing at each other with all their might. 
Sir Dene openly. Otto covertly : for 
he thought the poor old man’s imagina- 
tion was solely at work : that his mem- 
ory was rambling. 

“ Five or six times at the very least, 
Otto — more I think ; my books will 
tell — have I helped you to money with- 
in the last two or three years. Some- 
times for large sums. Why should you 
wish to deny it ? ” 

“ It must be all a mistake, sir. I 
have had none.” 

Sir Dene leaned back in his chair, his 
lips compressed. Were all his grand- 
children turninp- out false ? He had 


always believed Otto to be so strictly 
truthful. 

“ How dare you say this to my face, 
3mung man ? ” 

“It is the truth, grandfather. I 
don’t know what else to say.” And so 
earnestly did Otto say it, that Sir Dene 
almost began to wonder whether he him- 
self was dreaming. 

“Only a month or two ago — ’twas 
sometime in October — I sent you up a 
cheque for a hundred pounds. Sent it 
up in a letter, direct to your chambers. 
Come ! What do you say to that? ” 

“ I received it, sir, all safely, and 
acknowledged it to my brother, as he 
desired I should,” quietly answered Otto. 
“ I paid it away the same day, in con- 
formity with his instructions.” 

For some moments Sir Dene did not 
speak. A light seemed to be breaking 
upon him. 

“ Paid it away for yourself, or for 
Jarvis ? ” 

“ Oh, for Jarvis.” 

“ I see. Just tell me what jmu know 
about it, Otto.” 

“ I don’t know much, grandfather. 
Two letters were delivered to me that 
morning, each bearing the Worcester 
post mark. The one contained a few 
unimportant words from you to mj’self, 
hoping I was well, and that, and a 
cheque for a hundred pounds. The 
other was from Jarvis : saying I should 
receive such a cheque if I would kindly 
pay it awaj’- to a person (a lawyer) who 
would call on me in the course of the 
day. The lawjmr called ; and I paid it 
to him.” 

“ One more question, Otto : and yet, 
my boj", I hardlj" need to ask it. Is it 
true what you say — that.you have never 
had any money from me since that first 
five hundred pounds ? ” 

“ It is perfectly true. FTeither have 
I asked you for an}?-, sir.” 

“ No : but others have, in your name.” 

“Jarvis, I suppose.” 

“ Once or twice. Your mother, chiefly. 
Otto,” continued the baronet, bending 
his fine old face forward, and sinking 
his voice to a troubled whisper. “ She’d 
sell her soul for that first-borh son of 
hers. It’s my belief she’d 'sell her 
soul.” 

There was an ominous silence. Sir 
Dene sat, half beaten under the dis- 


208 


DENE HOLLOW. 


covery ; his head hent in thought, lift- 
ing this hand, lifting that, as he recalled 
the false pleas pressed upon him from 
time to time — Otto’s non-success in his 
profession, his heavy expenses, and 
urgent need of money to rub on with, 
80 as to keep his head above water. 
Never had the conduct of Captain Clan- 
waring appeared so flagrant as now. 
A groan burst forth from the old man. 

“ Otto, I hardly know whether I 
ought to let this wedding take place. 
Whether in honor I should not show 
the Squire what a false man he is — a 
spendthrift, — a coward.” 

“ There’s no doubt, sir, that Jarvis 
ran recklessly and foolishly into debt 
while he was in the army, and that he 
has been driven to his wit’s end to find 
money to stave off the embarrassment 
it entailed upon him : but marriage may 
make the turning point in his life. I 
should say it would.” 

And Sir Dene groaned again in very 
bitterness of spirit, as he rose to go up 
to his room for the night, leaning on the 
held-out arm of Otto. 

The morning brought disappointment, 
in the shape of a letter from Dene the 
heir. He wrote to say that a change for 
the worse had taken place in his mother. 
She was becoming so dangerously ill 
that neither he nor his brother could 
think of leaving her, even to attend the 
wedding. The letter concluded with a 
half-jesting wish that Jarvis might find 
a better groomsman. For young Dene 
(considered as first and foremost in the 
Clan waring family, after its head) had 
been solicited by Jarvis to undertake 
that office. Jarvis, with rather an ill 
grace, observed to the barrister that he 
supposed the honor must fall to his lot 
now : and said it as if he grudged it to 
him. 

“ It’s none such an honor — as I look 
upon it,” was the significant retort of 
Otto Clanwaring. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

AN ARRIVAL AT THE TRAILING 
INDIAN. 

The snow flakes were falling, large 
and thick. Falling on the hat of Mr. 
Sam Pound, swinging by one leg on the 
gate of the Trailing Indian. His mas- 


ter was out. Black had gone down to 
Hurst Leet on some urgent private 
business : no doubt connected with cer- 
tain poaching friends of his who lived 
ther^e. At least, such was the conclusion 
drawn by young Mr. Pound ; who was 
tolerably shrewd. Finding it rather 
lonely indoors as twilight appeared, for 
not a soul was in the dreary inn but 
himself, Mr. Pound had stepped out to 
have a look at the lane, by way of 
taking a slight change. • 

Mother Goose be a plucking of her 
geeses,” quoth he to himself, raising his 
eyes to the floating feathers that filled 
the air. “ Us ha’n’t had a re’glar snowy 
Christmas for this ever-so-long. Bids 
fair for’t now.” 

This w^as Friday. On and off since 
Wednesday the snow had been falling; 
so that the roads were already pretty 
thick with it. Regarding a fall of 
snow chiefly as a medium for the re- 
creative exercise of snowballing, and 
especially of snowballing some unsus- 
picious individual, whom the blow caught 
unawares, Mr. Pound was extremely 
satisfied with the prospect before him. 

*‘We shall ha’ the morris-dancers 
here,” cried he, sucking up his breath. 
For he was very fond of the morris- 
dancers: and thought .them, next to 
snowballing his friends and enemies, the 
best things brought bj^ a hard winter. 

Swinging to and fro on the gate was 
rather slow work, particularly as the 
snow had got into the gate’s hingea and 
prevented it swaying quickly. Taking 
his foot off, he picked up a handful of 
snow, and sent it bang against the op- 
posite hedge of holly. A sure marks- 
man he, when a snowball was the weapon 
hurled. 

Hul— Zo f ” 

This exclamation was caused by sur- 
prise. Just as Mr. Pound was manipu- 
lating a second ball to fling after the 
first, a huge mountain of snow — and it 
looked like nothing else — loomed slowly 
into view on the high road that crossed 
the end of the lane. Peering at this 
extraordinary phenomenon as well as 
circumstances permitted him — that is, 
betwefen the fading daylight and the 
storm of snow — Mr. Pound at length 
made it out to be the wagon.” 

Well, I never!” cried he. “That 
there waggin haven’t hurried herself!” 

In those days the wagon was an in- 


AN ARRIVAL AT THE TRAILING INDIAN. 209 


Btitution in England : and was used for 
the conveyance of parcels and passengers 
from one town to another. This partic- 
ular wagon in question was in the 
habit of passing along the road weekly, 
generally at dawn on a Friday morning 
— for wagons travelled night and day. 
They could not afford to halt by night 
on the road; not they: on, they blun- 
dered, crawling and creeping, and drag- 
ging their slow length along. A dis- 
tance that a stage coach might take 
twelve or fifteen hours to accomplish, 
the wagon would get through in a week. 
That this one had been a tolerably long 
time on its journey, was proved by the 
mound of snow collected above it. 

Black, he said as he hadn’t a seen 
the waggin go by, and I tolled him it 
had went by afore he was up. Thought 
it had. Hullo ! it be a stopping ! ” 

The. stopping of the wagon opposite 
the lane was less surprising to Mr. Bound 
than the sight of the wagon itself had 
been ; for it sometimes brought parcels 
for the Trailing Indian. Now and then 
it let out passengers at that place, to 
claim the inn’s hospitality, or to go on to 
Hurst Leet. Strictly speaking, this w'as 
what might be called a cross-country 
wagon, communicating with London 
and Worcester wagon, the London and 
Gloucester wagon, and other wagons 
of importance. Mr. Pound began to 
trudge towards it, to receive anything 
that might be there for his master. He 
could not resist the temptation of send- 
ing a snowball or two at the horses. 

I’ll lay a twopence as it have brought 
that there box o’ baccy from Lunnon ! ” 
thought he as he advanced. “ Black 

have been a growling over it this ” 

Mr. Pound’s words failed him in very 
surprise. Of all the surprises brought 
by the wagon, this was the greatest. 
Instead of the expected box o’ baccy ” 
disinterring itself from the inside ; there 
appeared, helped out by the wagoner — 
Miss Emma Geach. 

Mr. Pound’s first movement was to 
halt where he stood and give vent to a 
low whistle; his second, to turn tail, 
scutter home, bang-to the inn-door be- 
hind him, and slip the bolt. The return 
of this young person displeased him ex- 
cessively. Of the two, he would rather 
the wagon had brought a wild bear. 
Miss Geach was at the door almost as 
13 


soon as he ; rattling at it in an authori- 
tative manner, when she found it fast- 
ened. 

Now then, Sam Pound, open the 
door! What do you mean by this?” 

So, she had recognized him, in spite 
of the falling snow and the twilight 1 
Not seeing his way particularly clear to 
keep her out, Sam unbolted the door. 

She came in with her old warm cloak 
drawn round her, worn and shabby now, 
and a ragged shawl tied over her bonnet. 
She had gone away grandly by coach, 
plump, blooming, her big bandbox of 
clothes beside her: she came home 
humbly in a %vagon, thin and cross- 
looking, and with no luggage at all — 
unless a handful of things tied up in a 
cotton handkerchief could be called such. 
Sam Pound, backing against the rack 
behind the door, made his observations 
in silence. 

Take a cup o’ beer to the wagoner, 
Sam Pound. And be quick over it.” 

Whatever Miss Geach had lost in the 
way of looks, she hl!d kept her tongue. 
Sam would no more have dated ‘to dis- 
obey the imperative order, than he’d 
have attempted to fly. Drawing the 
beer, he went out with it, walking as 
slow as he could, and sullenly kicking up 
the snow before him. In the first place, 
Sam held Miss Geach in no favor : her 
scornful treatment of his brother Jim 
excited his resentment, and he also dis- 
liked her on his own account. In the 
second place, suppositions were crossing 
his mind that now she was back, he 
might no longer be wanted at the Trail- 
ing Indian : and, as it was tolerably idle 
service, it just suited Mr. Sam. 

When he returned indoors, and he 
took his time over the errand, Miss 
Geach had been upstairs to her room, 
had put on a gown of hers that had 
stayed all this while at the inn, and was 
down in the kitchen again, making some 
tea. Brushed up a little from her cold 
journey of several days and nights, she 
looked tolerably the same as usual, a 
little thin perhaps, but quite as good- 
looking. 

‘‘ Toast this bread, Sam Pound.” 

Sam Pound’s mind was so entirely 
stunned by the proceedings altogether, 
that he complied mechanicall}', and 
stooped to toast the bread. Two rounds 
of it, off the quartern loaf. Miss Geach 


210 


DENE HOLLOW. 


r 


put on plenty of salt butter, drew the 
table closer to the fire, and sat down to 
her tea. ^ 

Where's Black ? ” she asked then. 

He’s a went off to Hurst Leet.” 

Sam had squatted himself on his 
hams against the wall on the other side 
the fire-place, and sat facing her, his 
hands clasped round his smock frock and 
legs. The reflection of the flame played 
on the red bricks ; the kitchen looked 
homely and comfortable in the fire light. 

“Wonder when her had any tea 
last ? ” thought Sam, as he watched the 
eagerness with which she ate and drank. 
“ Shouldn’t think ’twas o’ one while.” 

“ And how’s the place going on, Sam 
Pound ?” demanded Miss Emma, pour- 
ing out another cup of tea, and begin- 
ning upon the second round of toast. 

“ Mortal dull. Us haven’t had a cus- 
tomer in all to-day, not for as much as a 
pint o’ beer.” 

“ Who was asking about this here 
inn ? I meant the place out o’ doors. 
Hurst Leet and that.” 

“ It be as it al’ays is, for what I can 
see,” returned Sam, ungraciously de- 
termined to give no more information 
than he could help. 

“ Any body dead ? ” 

“ The missis here be dead.” 

“Don’t I tell ye I warn’t asking about 
this here house, Sam Pound ? ” was her 
answer, given wrathfully. “ How’s 
Harry Cole, down at the smithy ? ” 

“ He’ve had a bad wrist, he have, 
through a beast of a horse what up and 
kicked him a being shoed. It be got 
well again.” 

“ Is Mr. Tom Clan waring come 
back ? ” 

“ The face her must have to ask that / ” 
thought Sam, as he sat and stared. 
“No, he bain’t back, he bain’t.” 

“ I suppose the rest on ’em be a com- 
ing to the Dene for Christmas. The 
heir and his brother — be they here ? ” 

“ I ha’n’t seed ’em.” 

“ Be the Lunnon lawyer here yet ? ” 

“ I dun know,” shortly answered Sam. 
“ Them there quality folk don’t concern 
me ; nor me them.” 

Miss Geach was not to be repressed. 
“ The captain — be he come yet ? ” 

“ The captain ha’n’t been away, as I’ve 
heerd on,” growled Sam. 

“ Not away ! ” 


“No, he ha’n’t. He lives at the Dene 
now, he do.” 

“ I’m sure he don’t.” 

“ I’se sure he do. There.” 

Miss Geach, about to drink up a saucer 
full of tea, paused with the saucer to her 
mouth. “ Who says he do, Sam 
Pound ? ” 

“I says it, for one. All the parish 
knows he do. Bain’t he about the place 
everlasting ? ” 

“ Be you sure ? ” 

“ Be you sure as that there’s buttered 
toast you be a swallowing of?” was 
Sam’s conclusive retort. “ The captain 
have lived along o’ Sir Dene and Lady 
Lyddy a most a year now, he have.” 

A peculiar kind of light stole slowly 
over Miss Geach’s face as she took in 
the assertion, making it look very hard. 
Sipping up the tea deliberately, she filled 
the saucer again. 

“ And the Squire’s people, how be 
they ? ” she resumed, but with an air of 
pre-occupation and of utter indifference 
to the question. “ Is Miss May married 
yet?” 

“ Not as I’ve heerd on,” said churlish 
Sam, more than ever resolved to tell 
nothing of his own accord. 

“And how be your own folks a going 
on since I left these parts, young Sam ? ” 
she continued condescendingly. 

“ They bain’t dead yet, our folks, 
bain’t, and there bain’t none on ’em 
married,” was the spoken response. 
“Nasty greedy gut!” mentally con- 
tinued Sam for his own private benefit. 
“ Her’s a gobbling up all that there 
nice toast, her is, and never offering a 
fellow a bit 1 Soakiny in butter, it were 1 ” 

Miss Geach had “ gobbled up ” the 
first half of the last round, and was 
beginning the second half. Also she 
was now stirring the sugar round vigor- 
ously in her third cup’^of tea. Sam, 
who was inordinately fond of good 
things, did not know how to suppress 
his ire. 

“Where’s the young ’un?” suddenly 
asked Sam. 

“ What young ’un ? ” 

“ That there babby o’ your’n. Left it 
on the road ? ” 

At this most unexpected and insolent 
close questioning, Miss Geach dropped 
the spoon and some of the tea together. 
Sam quailed before her hard look. 


AN ARRIVAL AT THE TRAILING INDIAN. 


*^Why, what do you mean, Sam 
Pound? What habby ? 

“ Oh, well, I thought — as you 

might ha’ — bought — a babby, you 
know, since you’ve been away.” 

Did you ! Who gave you leave to 
think, pray ? Me bought a babby ? 
What should bring me a buying of a 
babby ? ” she continued, peering hard 
at Sam’s countenance, and wondering 
perhaps how to take his words, and 
whether he was as simple as he was 
just then looking. haven’t bought 
a babby ; nor haven’t sold one ; nor 
haven’t got one nor had one. There. Be 
I married d’ye suppose, that you should 
set on and ask me that daft thing ? ” 

Sam had sundry retorts ready at his 
tongue’s end : but he deemed it prudent 
to let them stay there. In the old days 
she used to think nothing of slapping 
his ears. She had hard hands of her 
own, too. 

Take and fish out the biggest lump 
o’ coal jovi can find i’ the coal-hod, and 
put it on, Sam Pound. After that, you 
may shut the shutters and light the 
candles.” 

Tlie final piece of toast was being 
bolted — to use Mr. Sam’s private ex- 
pression — as he slowly rose to obey her. 
He had a great mind to tell her to put 
on the coal herself — but it might not be 
policy. Suppose she took and turned 
him out that night ? 

Mother used to say her had as 
much stock as Old Nick,” thought the 
young man. “ Her’ve got more on’t 
now, her have. Wish the waggin had 
froze her, I do ! ” 

He had his ten fingers in the large 
wooden coal-hod, searching for a big 
lump of coal, when the door was pushed 
sharply open, and a rush of air, a cloud 
of snow, and Randy Black burst in to- 
gether. By the evident haste the lat- 
ter displayed, one might have supposed 
he had been seeing another ghost. 

Well, Black, and how be you ?” 

In the hurry of his arrival, he had 
not at -first noticed her presence. The 
salutation brought him up, and he stood 
without motion. Had she been a ghost 
herself, he could not have gazed more 
intently. 

It’s me. Black. You needn’t stand 
stock still, a staring as if you didn’t 
know me.” 


211 

I might well stare, to see yoM,” re- 
torted Black in no pleasant tone. 
“ You impudent huzzy ! How dare you 
come back here in this bold way?” 

“Because it’s my home,” returned 
she with equanimity, as she began to 
wash up the tea things. 

Leaving them to the battle — which 
Miss Emma Geach would be tolerably 
sure to gain, for Black, in his failing 
health and strength, was no match for 
her now — we will go on to Beechhurst 
Dene. Something a little curious was 
happening there this self-same evening. 

Sir Dene, dressed for guests, was 
standing in the bright light of his sit- 
ting-room fire. He was thinking that, 
what with one non-arrival and another, 
things were not going as pleasantly as 
they might have gone. The disappoint- 
ment about the heir and his brother was 
still felt by him, and now he had just 
heard a report that Squire Arde had not 
returned from London. Gander gave 
him the information while helping him 
on with his coat. Captain Clanwaring, 
just come in from the Hall, said its 
master had not arrived. There was this 
snow, too ! 

One of the grandest dinners given for 
many years at the Dene, was to take 
place this evening. All in honor, of 
course, of the coming wedding. Invi- 
tations had gone out to the first people 
in the county, including some of its res- 
ident nobility, and were accepted. The 
entertainment was to be on a grand and 
lavish scale : amidst other things, a 
band was engaged to play in the hall 
during the banquet. 

On Sunday, Christmas Day, the Ardes 
would dine quietly at the Dene as usual. 
On Monday, there would be a, grand din- 
ner at the Hall. Not so grand as this 
one to-night : Arde Hall was not foolish 
enough to attempt to vie with Beech- 
hurst Dene, or put itself into the same 
scale of pomp and expenditure. And 
on Tuesday, the wedding-day, of course 
the Hall gave a breakfast. 

With all his heart, Sir Dene wished 
this evening over. Truth to say, his 
strength was not equal to the entertain- 
ing of guests : though, in his old-fash- 
ioned courtesy, he intended to try and 
do it as in his best days. But if his 
old friend and neighbor were to be absent, 
half of its charm, for him, would have 


212 


DENE HOLLOW. 


left it. Squire Arde was to have been 
home certainly that morning. Sir Dene 
thouglit it very hard that he had not 
come. 

“ I hope the carriages will be able to 
get along the roads/’ thought he, as he 
went to the window and looked forth on 
the snowy landscape, shining far and 
wide in the light night. “It is a long 
drive for some of ’em : they’ll be twice 
as long doing it as they would if the 
roads were clear. Hope they’ll take 
care to set off in time ! ” 

It was past five now, and the dinner 
hour was seven. As Sir Dene stood, 
looking and thinking, the door was tap- 
ped at, and Captain Clanwaring put his 
head in. 

“ Mr. Arde is not back, sir.” 

“ And why’s he not back ? ” retorted 
Sir Dene in a tart tone. The tartness 
not meant for the absent Squire, but for 
Jarvis himself. Sir Dene had taken his 
resolution — not to speak at all of the 
deceit in regard to money matters that 
had- come to his knowledge through 
Otto : at least, until the wedding should 
be over. But the fact lay sorely on his 
mind, and had rendered him barely 
civil since to either the captain or 
Lad}’- Lydia. 

“ He couldn’t get his business done 
in time to leave London last night ; he 
leaves to-night, and will be home to- 
morrow,” said Jarvis. “ Mrs. Arde has 
just had a letter from him.” 

“ A letter at this time of day ! 
"What d’ye mean ? ” 

“ It was delivered about three o’clock 
this afternoon, sir. The mail was no 
doubt late at Worcester : and the road 
is very heavy now between there and 
here.” 

There’s no uncertainty about it, 
then — that he won’t be here to din- 
ner ? ” 

“ No, sir : he can’t be.” 

Sir Dene turned his back, and Jarvis 
retreated from the room. By and by, 
when the old man was dozing in his 
easy chair by the fire, he was woke up 
by a resplendent vision kneeling at his 
feet. 

It was Mrs. Letsom. She was in a 
pale pink silk richly trimmed with lace ; 
but she wore neither flowers nor jewels ; 
her fair neck and arms were bare. 

“ Grandpapa, I have come with a pe- 
tition,” she coaxingly said, winding her 


pretty wliite arms about him. Oh, if 
you will but grant it ! ” 

“ What is it, my dear ? ” he asked, 
bending to kiss her. For he loved her 
very well : though not as he had loved 
Margaret. She kept his head down to 
whisper in his ear. 

“ Let me wear the diamonds to- 
night ! ” 

Up went Sir Dene’s face with a jerk. 
A jerk of puzzled surprise. 

“ The diamonds, Louisa ! What dia- 
monds ? ” 

“ Yours, grandpapa. The Clanwar- 
ing diamonds.” 

Sir Dene shook his head. “ Those 
diamonds have never been got out, ex- 
cept to be looked at, since my wife 
died.” 

“Then I’m sure it’s time they were 
aired,” returned the young lady. 

“ Our diamonds are never worn, you 
see, but bj^ the wife of the reining 
baronet, Louisa,” he explained, with a 
touch of the pride that was not yet at 
rest within him. “ They will go to 
young Dene when I die ; and be worn 
by his wife when he shall marry.” , 

“ But why need you be so exclusive, 
grandpapa. Dene’s not married yet j 
nor likely to be.” 

“ It is our custom, child. Your 
mother once attacked me on the subject 
of the diamonds; trying to persuade 
me to let her wear them. If I remem- 
ber aright we were going to the ball at 
the Worcester Music Meeting, with the 
Foleys, and others. But I gave her to 
understand, once for all, that it could 
not be.” 

“ That was different, grandpapa. 
This would be onlj^' in our own house ; 
just for to-night. If jmu would let it 
be the necklace only, then !” 

“ I don’t like to break through the 
rule, Louisa. Dene might not like it, 
either.” 

“ Dene’s not here. Besides — he has 
no business to like or dislike anything 
of the kind, as long as you are with us. 
I think Dene would be the first to say I 
should wear them, grandpapa.” 

Sir Dene remained silent, as if con- 
sidering. Mrs. Letsom rose, and began 
turning herself round in the light of 
the fire, her hands held out. 

“ My dress looks well, doesn’t it, 
grandpapa. It’s new on to-night.” 

“ V ery well, my dear.” 


THE SNOW STORM. 


1 


But don’t you see that I have 
neither bracelets nor necklace on ? I’ll 
tell you why. W’^hile I was dressing 
just now, my maid discovered the ca- 
lamity that my jewel box had not 
come. Not that there’s much of value 
in it, except the pearls. I have no- 
thing to wear to-night, grandpapa.” 

“ Your mother has jewels. Borrow 
some of her.” 

“ I’d not wear any she’s got — 
wretched old trumpery ! Oh, grand- 
papa, if you would! Just the neck- 
lace, only. You would enjoy the 
benefit of seeing it worn on a neck 
once again.” 

And Sir Dene yielded. With the 
fond face kissing his, and the white 
arms entwined about him, he could 
but yield. But only the necklace, he 
said ; and he was resolute in that. 
Only the necklace. 

“ Ritog for Gander, then, Louisa.” 

The diamond case was kept at the 
bottom of a chest in the next room. 
Sir Dene’s chamber. Getting his keys. 
Sir Dene unlocked the chest himself; 
and Gander dived down with his hands 
to get it out, in somewhat the same 
manner that Mr. Sam Pound had just 
dived into the wooden coal-hod at the 
Trailing Indian. He had to remove 
sundry things: Sir Dene’s military 
orders (he had one on his coat to- 
night), parchments belonging to the 
estate, and such like. Mrs. Letsom, 
her face and fingers alike eager, stood 
by and held the light. 

But the case of diamonds was not 
there. It was not there. Sir Dene 
sunk down in a chair * speechless. 
Gander raised a hullabaloo. 

For once the faithful old man ser- 
vant lost his wits. He flew out into 
the passages, shouting out wildly, 
“Thieves! Thieves!” Louisa, fol- 
lowed, wild too, screaming in her turn, 
and whiffling the candle about. 

It brought out the people who were 
attiring themselves in the dressing- 
rooms. Lady Lydia, Aunt Ann, 
Captain Clanwaring, and his brother 
Otto. The Captain demanded whether 
the house had gone mad. 

“No,” said Gander, “its the dia- 
monds that be gone. We’ve had 
thieves in.” 

“ The beautiful Clanwaring dia- 


213 

monds,” shrieked Louisa. ‘‘And I 
was to have worn them to-night !” 

Otto stood, half paralyzed. He 
looked at his mother, he- looked at his 
brother : but they both went suddenly 
into their rooms again, and shut the 
doors. Going up to Louisa, he caught 
her hand. 

“ Say no more, now, Louisa,” 'he 
whispered in some agitation. “ Hush 
it up. Hush it up, by any means in 
your power — if you value this house’s 
peace and good name.” 

“Hush it up!” retorted Louisa 
Letsom, in a loud tone of rage. 
“ Hush up the theft of our diamonds I 
You cannot know what you arp say- 
ing, Otto Clanwaring.” 


CHAPTER XXXY. 

THE SNOW STORM. 

A DARK, thick night, that of Friday, 
the twenty-third day of December. 
The London and Worcester mail was 
toiling its slow way along towards the 
latter city under difficulties. Snow 
was falling heavily; snow' had been 
falling, more or less, for some days. 
The coach was unusually laden. Al- 
though it was the Royal Mail, and 
carried His Majesty’s letters, it was 
not on that account exempt from par- 
cels, especially at the busy Christmas 
season ; and it was crammed with pres- 
ents from people in London to their 
friends in the country. Baskets of 
fish, barrels of oysters, small hampers 
of wine, and passengers’ luggage. 
Nevei had the Worcester mail been 
more weightily charged. 

Four passengers sat inside ; none 
out. People had not cared to risk 
the cold journey for so many hours 
when they could get an inside place. 
Of the passengers, one was a lady ; 
the other three were gentlemen: anti 
they leaned in their corners, well 
wrapped up, wishing the night was 
over, and inwardly grumbling at the 
tardy pace to which the state of the 
roads condemned them. 

Slower and slower went the horses. 
After leaving London, they had got 
along pretty well and kept their time 


214 


DENE HOLLOW. 


tolerably at the different halting places 
for the change of horses : it was only 
within an hour, or so, that the roads 
had become what they were — nearly 
impassable. The poor horses toiled 
and pulled : never a handsomer team 
to look at than those four bright brown 
steeds : but they could not get along. 
The coachman half blinded, himself, 
by the drifting storm, alternately 
coaxed and whipped them. The guard 
rose perpetually in his seat behind to 
look out on the white mist, so far as 
he could see of it in the light given by 
the mail lamps. Then he would put 
his horn to his mouth, and blow a 
blast ; sometimes short and snappish, 
sometimes patient and prolonged. To 
what end ? It only went shrieking and 
echoing away to the lone country, its 
sound losing itself in the snow. 

The horses came to a stand-still, and 
the coachman turned his head to 
speak, from the midst of his mufflers. 
“ Light 3^our lantern, Jim, and see 
whether I he in the road.” 

The guard got down with his lighted 
lantern, and at once sunk up to his 
knees in snow. “ This can’t be the 
highway,’’ he muttered to himself. 

“ If ’tis, the storm must have fell here 
kindly.” 

It was impossible to tell whether 
they were in the road or not. Snow 
was everywhere. So far as could be 
seen by the limited space on which ligh 
was thrown, the lookout presented 
nothing but one white plain ; and 
those small white mountains, revealing 
glimpses of themselves in places, might 
be heaping drifts that had gathered, 
might be hedges that were covered : 
no human being could tell. The horses, 
panting after the labored exertions 
they had made, tossed their heads to 
the reins, and tried to shake them- 
selves free ; but the leaders would not 
go forward of their own will, and to 
urge them mght bring death. 

“ It is of no use. Smith,” spoke the 
guard to the coachman at length from 
the depth of his man}^ capes and com- 
forters. “We can’t go on.” 

“ What’s us to do, then ?” 

“ May I be pressed if I know I” 

Meantime the inside passengers were 
gradually awakening from their state 
of semi-sleep to the fact that they had , 


come to a stand-still ; that the mail 
was not progressing at all. *Two of 
the gentlemen wore white cotton night 
caps ; the third a purple silk handker- 
chief tied on his head ; the lady was 
enveloped in a soft quilted bonnet. 
In those days of long night stages, it 
was the custom 'to prepare for sleep 
inside the coaches with as much regard 
to comfort as circumstances permit- 
ted. One of the windows was let 
down, and the purple handkerchief, to- 
gether with the head wrapped in it, 
thrust itself out, to ascertain the cause 
of the delay. 

“ What’s the matter ?” 

The guard with his lantern trod his 
wa}’’ to the window at the call, as 
quickly as the depth of snow allowed 
him. 

“ We can’t get on, sir.” 

“Not get on!” came the half-an- 
gry, half-authoritative, rejoinder, in 
tones that are familiar to the reader. 
For the traveller with the purple silk 
handkerchief was Squire Arde. 

“ No, sir,” repeated the guard. “We 
can’t get on at all. The snow has 
been uncommon heavy here, and the 
horses are not able to make their way 
in it. It’s coming down now as thick 
as ever I saw it : getting worse with 
every minute.” 

The startling news fully aroused the 
whole of the passengers. As many 
of the four heads as could come out at 
the windows, came out, their faces pre- 
senting various phases of that undesi- 
rable emotion — consternation. 

“ We must get on, guard,” spoke 
Squire Arde, with the authority of one 
who is accustomed to command. 

“I don’t see how it is to be done, 
sir,” civilly replied the man. “ The 
leaders refuse to move of their own 
accord, as ’twere ; and Smith dare not 
force ’em on. We don’t know that we 
be in the road.” 

“But we must get on,” pursued 
Squire Arde. “ To-morrow will be 
Christmas Eve ; and I — I — I have en- 
gagements at home that I cannot 
break, or put off.” 

“ To-day is Christmas Eve, sir,” cor- 
rected the guard : “ morning has been 
in some time. But we cannot get on 
any more for that.” 

“ Whereabouts are we ? ” was heard 


THE SNOW STOEM. 


215 


from a passenger who was unable to 
get his head out. 

“ Not such a great sight off Chip- 
ping Norton, sir,” was the lucid an- 
swer. “ Half way, maybe.’ But its 
all guess work.” 

“ Is there any danger, guard ? ” 
called out the lady, in her quick, pleas- 
ant voice. 

“Not as long as we keep still, 
ma’am.” 

“ But surely we are not to keep 
still all night ! Good gracious, guard 1 
Why suppose — suppose another coach 
comes up and runs over us ? ” 

“ Another coach couldn’t any more 
come up, ma’am, than we can get on,” 
returned the guard, who seemed as 
much at a loss and as full of dismay 
as his passengers. “We might have 
done well to stop at W oodstock ; the 
hostler there told Smith it would be 
a wonder if the mail made her way to 
Chipping Norton.” 

The gentleman with the largest cot- 
ton night cap was striking his repeater. 
By the hour it gave back, he knew 
they could not hitherto have been seri- 
ously delayed. 

“ Oh come, guard, ’’said he, “ it’s not 
so bad. I daresay we can get on with 
a little perseverance. The snow must 
have drifted just here.” 

“ That’s what it is, sir. If it had 
been as bad before, we couldn’t have 
got along at all. But it’s ofno use try- 
ing to get through this.” 

“ What is to be done. Smith ? ” 
roared Squire Arde at the top of his 
voice to the coachman. “ What is to 
be done ? ” 

“ Nothing — so far as he seed,” was 
the substance of the coachman’s reply, 
given with equanimity. “ If he tried 
to force the animals on, it might re- 
sult in a upset down a bank, and 
cost all on ’em their lives, men and 
cattle too.” 

Even Squire Arde’s impatience 
would not wish to risk that result. 
But he urged a cautious trial ; as in- 
deed did his fellow-travellers. They 
thought it possible that the great 
drift of snow was confined to this one 
spot, and might be got through. 

An effort was made. The guard and 
the passenger of the repeater went to 
the heads of the leaders j and for a 


short space and with great caution, 
some few yards of way were sur- 
mounted. But the snow got deeper: 
or, rather they got deeper into it. The 
coachman’s decided opinion was, that 
they had lost the road ; and that even 
this cautious moving was extremely 
perilous. So they desisted ; life is 
sweet, and none of us willingly risk it 
lightly. There appeared nothing for 
it but to remain as they were — sta- 
tionary. 

And, remain so, they did, until 
morning light. None of the passen- 
gers ever forgot that night. The fame 
of it went abroad ; and it is talked of 
to this day in the counties of Worces- 
tershire, Oxfordshire and Gloucester- 
shire. 

When day dawned it was found that 
the coachman’s conjecture was correct. 
They were off the road ; and how they 
had penetrated without accident to the 
spot where they found themselves was 
a marvel. Inside of a ploughed field 
stood the coach, its previously broken 
fence having removed the barrier be- 
tween it and the highway. Bat the 
fence was broken only for a very short 
space, not much more than enough to 
allow of the horses and mail getting 
through. It was this that rendered 
it remarkable — tliat they should have 
passed through at that one particular 
spot. The snow fell incessantly : the 
road, even could they have got back 
to it, was utterly impassable; to at- 
tempt to go on to Worcester was out 
of the question for the present. By 
dint of exertion and skill they reached 
a lonely farm house beyond the field ; 
and within its hospitable walls and 
stables man and beast obtained the 
most welcome rest and shelter that 
any of them had ever enjoyed in their 
need. 

I must beg of you to note the days ; 
for there was a singular romance at- 
tached to this detention of the mail 
and its passengers. People, interested 
in the fact, were wont to say that it 
had been stopped by the Finger of 
Heaven. This day, Saturday, was 
Christmas Eve ; the Sunday would be 
Christmas Day : and Monday the 26th 
would be the eve of Miss Arde’s wed- 
ding day. 

When Mr. Arde went to London on 


216 


DENE HOLLOW. 


the Monday, putting up at the Castle- 
and-Falcon, it had been his full inten- 
tion to quit it by the Thursday night’s 
mail, so as to reach Worcester on Fri- 
day morning, and his own home in the 
course of the day. But, when Thurs- 
day came, he found he was not able to 
do this ; and he wrote to his wife, say- 
ing he should be home without fail on 
Saturday. 

This delay in London rather vexed 
him. For one thing it prevented his 
joining the state dinner given by Sir 
Dene Clan waring on Friday ; and Mr. 
Arde was fond of good dinners. The 
fault was his lawyers’; they were pre- 
paring Miss Arde’s marriage settle- 
ment, and did not get it ready. He 
blew them up sharply, and on the Fri- 
day morning the deed was handed to 
him. On the Friday afternoon he was 
at the Bull-and-Mouth, and put him- 
self into the Worcester mail — which 
in those days started early, either at 
four or five in the afternoon. He had 
with him the marriage settlement, and 
the marriage license; a fine codfish 
and two barrels of oysters. So the 
mail started on its journey cheeringlj^ 
enough, and traversed part of the dis- 
tance only to find it could not traverse 
the rest. Mr. Arde, when writing to 
his wife, had said he should be home 
on Saturday “without fail.” But here 
he was instead ; snowed-up in that 
lonely farm-house, somewhere in the 
region of Chipping Norton; and, on 
the whole, glad that a farm-house was 
there to be in. 

Nevertheless, as the hours on the 
Saturday went on, and there appeared 
to be no chance whatever of their mov- 
ing, for the snow continued to come 
down heavily at intervals, Mr. Arde 
chafed at the delay ; showing some ir- 
ritation on the point to his fellow-trav- 
ellers and telling them that urgent 
business awaited him at his home in 
Worcestershire. Yery true ; it did so. 
But, had the business been ten times 
as urgent, had it involved life or death, 
he could not aii}^ more have helped the 
detention. When the elements set 
themselves against man, man is pow- 
erless to contend with them. 

Beds were improvised for the trav- 
ellers on Saturday night. The farmer 
and his family were hospitable to the 


last degree, and did their best in every 
way to make their unexpected guests 
comfortable. The mail coach covered 
well with sacks to keep it dry, stood 
out in the snow ; the horses were in 
the stables ; the coachman and guard 
made themselves happy with the far- 
mer’s servants, and no doubt secretly 
enjoyed the holiday as an interlude of 
rest from their life’s occupation. 

Many were the anxious looks cast 
out on the weather when the travellers 
rose on Christmas morning. One sheet 
of white presented itself everywhere, 
and there was at least no chance of 
their getting on that day. The farmer 
feasted them right royally with tur- 
keys, and other good things incidental 
to the season ; amidst which appeared 
Mr. Arde’s large cod-fish and one of 
his barrels of oysters ; a rare treat to 
the farmer and his people. They drew 
round the fire for dessert, to make 
merry, telling anecdotes and stories ; 
and for a time Squire Arde forgot his 
vexation. Some friends of the local- 
ity who were to have partaken of the 
family’s hospitality, dinner guests, 
could not get there for the snow. 

On Monday, matters out of doors 
remained in the same state, and the 
prisoners had to be prisoners on that 
day still. Worse still, there seemed 
to be no indications that things would 
alter ; and Mr. Arde was at his wit’s 
end. He chafed, he fumed, he marched 
to the doors, he opened the windows, 
he took counsel with the coachman 
and guard. All to no purpose. The 
rest rallied him ; the lady laughed at 
him good-humoredly; cheerful-hearted 
herself under all circumstances of 
existence, however untoward, she mer- 
rily told him that the adventure was 
agreeable, rather than otherwise, and 
would serve them to talk of the re- 
mainder of life. Mr. Arde at length 
disclosed the reason of his impatience 
— his daughter, whose wedding was 
fixed for the following day, could not 
be married without him, as he bore the 
license and the settlements. They 
allowed the plea; agreeing with him 
that the detention was unfortunate, 
but they were unable to speed him 
onward. 

“ Only think if I should not be home 
by to-morrow morning,” cried Mr. 


V 


THE SNOW STORM. 217 


Arde, in accents of fear at the very 
thought. 

“ They would only have to postpone 
the ceremony for a day or two,’^ cheer- 
ily pointed out the lady. 

Squire Arde shook his head. “ I 
donT like weddings being postponed,’^ 
said he. “ Old wives say it bodes ill- 
luck, you know, Mrs. W — . We must 
get away somehow to-night.’^ 

And out he went again in his rest- 
lessness, to see the guard and coach- 
man. 

Must get away to-night 1 .Squire 
Arde might as well have said he must 
go up in a balloon and get the clerk 
of the weather to change the aspect of 
affairs. There was as much possibil- 
ity of his doing the one as the other. 
Monday wore on. The travellers sat 
by the fire and played cards, and the 
good farmer feasted his guests again. 
Not one of them in after life forgot his 
genuine hospitality and kindness. For 
I am recording only what took place 
in actuality. Up to this time ; all Sat- 
urday, all Sunday, all Monday; they 
had been detained. So prolonged and 
heavy a snowfall had not been known 
in the country for years and years. 

Tuesday morning. Squire Arde 
was the first to gaze out anxiously. 
It was the wedding day — or ought to 
have been — and he was nearly ram- 
pant. For though a very easy man 
in general, it was in Mr. Arde’s nature 
to put himself fiercely out when any- 
thing went wrong on great occasions ; 
and perhaps the very consciousness of 
the fact that in his heart he did not 
cordially like Captain Clanwaring for 
his daughter’s husband, made him all 
the more impatient to get the mar- 
riage over and done with. Doubt would 
then be off his mind. Ev^er and anon 
in the past few weeks a voice had been 
whispering to him that he and his wife 
might have been wrong to have urged 
Jarvis Clanwaring upon May : she was 
3 'oung enough and could have waited, 
to make another choice. However, 
what was fixed, was fixed: and the 
squire only wanted to be at home and 
get it over. But this snow-storm was 
preventing him. 

As an imprisoned bird flutters his 


wings against the bars of his cruel 
cage, vainly endeavoring to escape 
from it, so it was with George Arde. 
He chafed as before, he fretted, he 
fumed ; all to as little purpose as the 
poor caged bird. As the one cannot 
break his wire bars, neither could the 
other his fetters. What mattered it 
to Mr. Arde though the weather on 
this Tuesda}’’ morning was changing — 
giving evident signs of a speedy break- 
ing up ? It did not serve him. Had 
the roads between that farm-house 
and Hurst Leet been instantaneously 
rendered, by some miracle, clear as a 
bowling-green, he could not have 
reached home in time for the cere- 
mony : no, not by the help of the 

fleetest horse. Mrs. W , good, 

bright little woman, who had her cares 
even then, and was destined to have 
more as her life went on, talked to 
him for a few moments, in her pleasant 
way, and said she had known some of 
these apparently untoward disappoint- 
ments turn out to have been all for the 
best. It is to be feared that the 
words went, as the sa 3 dng runs, in at 
one ear and out at the other; for Mr. 
Arde, could not see the argument at 
all. Thus Tuesday’s hours struck one 
after the other, and the day drew to- 
wards its close. 

And now Mr. Arde’s patience was 
destined to receive its final and worst 
blow. By night — this Tuesda 3 ’ night — 
the main road became traversj ble. 
Word of this was brought to the farm; 
but the farm doubted. In point of 
fact it was so : for the thaw had been 
unusually rapid, and the highway 
was open for coaches. The mail that 
left London that same Tuesday even- 
ing, passed on its way, as they sub- 
sequently learnt, and reached Wor- 
cester on Wednesday morning, but an 
hour or two behind its time. But this 
other mail, ill-fated Mr. Arde’s mail, 
was still a prisoner. The half mile of 
route necessary to get from the farm 
to the main way, that little bit of 
grass-grained route, partly ploughed 
field, partly narrow lane, was as yet 
impassable. Squire Arde could have 
beaten half the world in his helpless 
despair. 


218 


DENE HOLLOW. 


CHAPTER XXXYI. 

AT BEECHHURST DENE. 

In Gander’s pantry, a sociable kind 
of room, pannelled with oak, stood 
over the fire Otto Clanwaring and 
the butler ; the latter in his usual 
striped morning jacket, which he wore 
summer and winter, and with a tea- 
cloth in his left hand. Gander was 
frightfully discomposed. In all the 
years that the man had lived with 
Sir Dene, he had never been so put 
out as he was now, at the disappear- 
ance of the case of diamonds. It was^ 
Saturday morning, and Christmas Eve, 
for we have to go back a little to 
record what had been taking place 
during the snow-storm at Beechliurst 
Dene and elsewhere. The grand din- 
ner, as may be remembered, took place 
on the previous night, Friday ; and 
Sir Dene, fatigued with his exertions 
as host, was not yet up. 

“ No, Mr. Otto, you had better not 
go in to see him,” Gander was saying, 
with quite the same amount of deci- 
sive authority that he had used when 
the barrister was a boy. “ When my 
master says to me, ‘ Gander, you’ll 
take care that I am not disturbed for 
a bit,’ why it’s my place to take care 
he’s not, sir ; and Sir Dene knows that 
I shall take care.” 

“ I should be the last to disturb him 
against his will. Gander.” 

“Yes, I think you would be, Mr. 
Otto.” 

“ The dinner was too much for him, 
that’s the fact,” observed Otto. A 
courteous-natured man, as my grand- 
father eminently is, exerts himself at 
all cost to entertain guests when they 
are around him ; and a state occasion 
like that of last night, involves a con- 
tinued strain on the exertions, men- 
tally and physically. Sir Dene should 
have given up the presidency to— to 
Captain Clanwaring, and sat himself 
as a guest.” 

“ He’d not do that,” disputed Gan- 
der. “ While he’s able to appear 
among ’em at all, it ’ll be as head and 
chief. Quite right, too. To Captain 
Clanwaring he never would give up,” 
boldly added Gander ; “ he don’t like 
him well enough. I can’t tell but 


what he might ha’ give up last night 
after what happened, had the heir, Mr. 
Dene, been here.” 

Otto said nothing to this. What- 
ever might be his own private con- 
tempt for his elder brother, he did not 
choose to speak of it to the butler. 

“ What a snow we are having. Gan- 
der I” he cried turning his eyes on the 
white landscape outside the window, 
by way of changing the conversation. 

“ ’Twas not the entertaining o’ the 
folks, Mr. Otto ; my master’s equal to 
that once in a way yet ; though I think 
it ’ll be the last time he’ll ever attempt 
it,” resumed Gander, disregarding the 
remark about the snow. “ ’Twas that 
awful upset just as the company was 
arriving. My wonder was then that 
he sat down to table at all. I’m sure I 
don’t know whether I was on my head 
or my heels all the while I waited..” 

“ Yes,” said Otto, looking close at 
the fire, “ it’s not pleasant to miss 
one’s family diamonds.” 

“No, it’s no^,” significantly spoke 
Gander. “Not a wink o’ sleep has 
the poor master had for thinking on’t. 
And he has been getting a notion into 
his head in the night about it that 
makes him feel worse.” 

“ What’s that ?” 

“ Well, he thinks ’twas no common 
thief that took ’em,” returned’ Gander, 
gently swaying his tea-cloth. 

“ No common thief!” 

“No housebreaker, nor nothin’ o’ 
that. ‘ Don’t you be put out about it. 
Gander,’ says he to me ; ‘ you'd not 
touch the diamonds’ — for you see, Mr. 
Otto, ’twas an awk’ard loss for me, 
and I told him so ; nobody but me and 
himself having access to the keys that 
unlocked the box. He had been think- 
ing it over in the night, he went on to 
say, and he had come to the notion 
that somebody had took them dia- 
monds to make money upon them.” 

Knowing what he did know, the usu- 
ally impassive face of the barrister 
turned as red as a school-girl’s. Glanc- 
ing up at Gander’s clock, he made 
some light remark about the hour. 
But the butler would not be repressed. 

“ It have been nothing but worrying 
him for money this many a year past. 
W orry, worry, worry ; I wonder some- 
I times that the master stands it j and 


AT BEEOHHURST DENE. 


219 


so ’ud 57^ou wonder, Mr. Otto, if you 
were in the midst on’t. My lady’s at 
him perpetual ; its money for herself 
she wants, or for the captain, or for 
you. As for the captain he have not 
dared to ask on his own score this long 
while, for Sir Dene’ll never hear him.” 

Otto Clanwaring opened his lips to 
say that none of the solicited money 
had been for himself; but he closed 
them again without speaking. A 
shrewd suspicion lay upon him, gath- 
ered from Gander’s glance and from 
Gander’s tone, that the man guessed it 
perfectly. 

“ And so, Mr. Otto, Sir Denethinks, 
seeing that lately he has not responded 
much to the demands but just shut up 
his breeches pockets, that perhaps the 
diamonds have been took to make 
money upon. Borrowed, you know.” 

An idea crossed the mind of Otto 
Clanwaring that Gander had his suspi- 
cions that he, Otto, knew something of 
this ; drawn no doubt from his per- 
haps too evident efforts to hush up the 
matter on the previous night when the 
loss was discovered. Otherwise the 
man would hardly so have spoken. 

“ I can only say. Gander, that I 
have not borrowed the diamonds — as 
you call it.” 

“Not likely, Mr. Otto. But now, 
you look here, sir. If them diamonds 
could be brought back — or if proof 
could be given to the master that they 
hain’t lost outright, sold, say, ’twould 
comfort him.” 

Otto really knew not what to an- 
s,wer. 

“ I was thinking, sir, that perhaps 
we might ha’ got up a little bit of a 
plot, you and me. If you could get 
the diamonds Pd carry the case in my 
hand to Sir Dene, and say : ‘ Look 

here, master, at what I’ve done, at my 
poor foolish memory ; ’ and vow to 
him that I had put ’em elsewhere for 
safet}^ when I was rubbing of ’em up, 
and forgot it — just as the Widow Bar- 
ber put away that paper of her’n years 
ago, and couldn’t find it again, and 
had to turn out of her place in conse- 
quence.” 

“ Are you suggesting this out of 
consideration for Sir Dene, or for 
others ? ” 

“ Why, for Sir Dene, of course, sir,” 

/ 

i 


replied Gander, with an emphasis and 
a flick to the tea-cloth, that seemed to 
imply he’d not trouble himself to do it 
for others. “ I’d spread the diamonds 
out before him to comfort him, and 
he’d believe, listening to me, that they 
had never been lost, but in my stupid 
memory. ’Twould be a pack o’ lies ; 
but heaven ’ud forgive me for the sake 
o’ the poor master. He’s too old to 
have these tricks played upon him, 
Mr. Otto ; and the loss o’ them dia- 
monds is just telling upon his mind ; 
and I dun know what the end on’t ’ll 
be.” 

There was a pause of silence. The 
barrister had his head bent as if in 
thought; Gander and his cloth were 
perfectly still, waiting for an answer. 

“ Tell me freely why you are saying 
this,” said Otto, looking up suddenly, 
his indifferent tone changing to a 
frank one. “You have something in 
your thoughts, Gander.” 

“ Well, sir, as it’s you, and you ask 
me, I think I will tell. Captain Clan- 
waring has got the diamonds.” 

An exceedingly disagreeable sensa- 
tion resembling shame seized hold of 
Otto on hearing this. He gave the 
man a word of reprimand and bade 
him not talk so fast. It w^as not 
Otto’s duty to betray his brother. 

“ I am just as sure of it as that we 
two be talking here, Mr. Otto,” per- 
sisted Gander. “ After the company 
had gone last night, Miss Louisa — 
Mrs. Letsom that is — came into my 
pantry here, and began talking about 
the diamonds, vowing she would have 
every nook and corner of the house 
turned out, and every servant in it, 
searched, them and their boxes. All in a 
minute, in come Captain Clanwaring. 
He seized hold of her and said — well, I 
hardly know what he said, Mr. Otto, 
and at the time he didn’t see me, for 
I’d gone behind the screen there. 
Just a few words it was, ordering her 
to be quiet; but they startled me. 
His face was as white as white paint 
when it’s got varnish on’t, a kind o’ 
blazing white. He had took enough 
to drink too. I knew then who had 
got the diamonds ; and Miss Louisa, 
I fancy she knew, for she turned as 
white as he was, and never spoke an- 
other word. ’Twas my lady who took 


220 


DENE HOLLOW. 


’em out of the chest, I guess. Must 
ha’ been. Nobody but her could get 
to Sir Dene’s keys — save me.” 

Otto Clanwaring the rising barris- 
ter, casting glances towards a future 
chief judgeship, possibly to something 
higher than that, bit his lip almost to 
bleeding. How painful this was to 
him, a man of honor, his sharp accent 
told, 

“ Then it was you who instilled 
these suspicions into the mind of Sir 
Dene, Gander 1” 

“Not a bit on’t, sir. I’ve never let 
’em out o’ my mind till this moment, 
and I shan’t speak of ’em again. Sir 
Dene took ’em up for himself in the 
night while he lay awake. Hinting at 
’em to me this morning when I went 
in, I pretended to say that he must be 
mistaken.” 

“ And you must be mistaken, Gan- 
der,” spoke Otto decisively. “ Better 
not let Captain Clanwaring hear 
you.” 

“ Let it go so, Mr. Otto,” returned 
the man calmly. “But — if there’s 
any means o’ getting the diamonds 
back, get ’em back, for the poor mas- 
ter’s sake.” 

“ Sir Dene must talk to you very 
confidentially. Gander 1” 

“ So he do, sir. There’s been no- 
body else here the past twelvemonth 
for him to talk to, but me, and he has 
got into the habit on’t. You’ve all 
been away but the captain ; and the 
master wouldn’t talk to him. If Mr. 
Tom was here ’twould be different.” 

The ringing of Sir Dene’s bell broke 
up the colloquy. Gander threw his 
tea-cloth on a chair and hastened up 
stairs : leaving Otto standing over the 
fire. 

It was a painfully humiliating mo- 
ment for Otto Clanwaring. That the 
affair had taken place exactly as the 
old serving man divined — his mother 
abstracting the case from the chest 
and handing it to Jarvis— Otto felt as 
sure as though he had seen it done. 
With his whole heart he hated the 
clear-sightedness of Gander in this. 
Although he had been in the family so 
many years as to be almost like one 
of themselves, it was not pleasant that 
he should be cognizant of this dis- 
graceful act. 


“ What a curse are spendthrift 
habits !” cried the barrister in his bit- 
terness. 

Quitting the pantry, he bent his 
steps to the library, where he expected 
to find his mother and brother alone. 
He intended to act on Gander’s sug- 
gestion, and ask them to redeem the 
diamonds, if possible. The time had 
gone by for mincing the matter in the 
opinion of Otto Clanwaring. 

With the snowy landscape out of 
doors so suggestive of cold, and the 
blazing fire within, the library pre- 
sented a picture of warm comfort* 
Lady Lydia and Jarvis sat on a sofa, 
and were evidently consulting to- 
gether. Jarvis lay back against one 
of its cushions, yawning and stretch- 
ing, and not looking any the fresher 
for the quantity of wine taken at the 
past night’s dinner. Otto took up his 
stand before them ; and in a low 
voice and in a few words said what he 
had to say It brought ray lady bolt 
upright. She told Otto he was mad. 

“ I know you have pledged the dia- 
monds, Jarvis,” went on Otto. “What 
did you get upon them ?” 

“ It’s a lie,” said polite Jarvis. 

“ Look here,” quietly rejoined Otto, 
“this sort of thing will do no good. 
The job is a bad job altogether, but 
its done; and all that remains now is 
to see whether it can be undone. 
Don’t trouble yourself to deny it to 
me, Jarvis. I have known of the 
transaction all along.” 

“ What an infernal lie I” amended 
Jarvis. 

“ Pale, the money-lender, has the 
diamonds. I saw you leave them 
with him at his house ; I saw you re- 
ceive the wages.” 

An explosive burst of abuse from 
Jarvis. Abuse of the money-lender, 
who must, as he concluded, have be- 
trayed trust; fiercer abuse of Otto. 
Lady Lydia, fearing the noise might 
penetrate beyond the room, stood be- 
tween them, praying them to be tran- 
quil. 

“ It could not be helped,” she said 
to Otto, finding how useless it would 
be to play longer at denial. “Jarvis 
was obliged to have money, and there 
were no other means whatever of rais- 
ing it. The diamonds were lying 


AT BEEOHHURST DENE. 


221 


there useless, not looked at from 
year’s end to year’s end; and I as- 
sumed to a certainty that they would 
be replaced before Sir Dene could find 
it out. There’s no great harm done,” 
she concluded in a slighting tone. 

“As he has found it out, they must 
be brought back,” was Otto’s answer. 
“ For Sir Dene’s sake. Do you here, 
Jarvis ?” 

“ They can be brought back and 
will be brought back as soon as the 
wedding is over ; without any of youf 
confounded inteference,” spoke Jarvis, 
sullenly. “ But for the delay in that, 
they’d have been home before.” 

“Some days to wait, yet ?” remarked 
Otto. “ Were the roads clear — but 
it’s hardly to be expected with 
this continued fall of snow — I would 
run up to London and get them, if 
3^ou could find the money.” 

Jarvis half laughed in derision. He 
find the money I When the ten thou- 
sand pounds to be allotted to him of 
Mary Arde’s fortune should have 
passed with herself into his own pos- 
session, he would have more than 
enough money for everything. Until 
then he had not a stiver. 

“ What did you get from Pale on 
them ?” asked Otto 

“ Three hundred pounds.” 

Three hundred pounds ! In truth it 
was a sum far beyond any possible 
means to find. Otto imparted a hint 
that Sir Dene suspected something, 
but held his tongue about Gander. 
A great pity crossed his heart when 
he thought of Mary Ardp. Tied to 
this spendthrift, what would her fu- 
ture be? But that Jarvis was his 
brother, and brotherhood involves ob- 
ligations, Otto had certainly opened 
the eyes of the ruling powers at Arde 
Hall. 

^ “ It is nothing short of fraud,” ex- 

claimed Otto. 

“ What is ?” snapped his mother. 

“The marrying Mary Arde.” 

My lady’s eyes and tongue alike 
blazed forth their denunciation of 
Otto and his gratuitous opinion; and 
he was feign to hold his peace. 

She went into Sir Dene’s room as 
soon as she could get admittance — 
which was r t until the baronet had 
dressed fr "ay, and was sitting 


by his fire. There she sat herself, in 
her plausible way, to disperse any 
doubt that might lie on Sir Dene’s 
mind of Jarvis in connection with the 
diamonds. He heard her in silence, 
saying nothing, and whether she made 
any impression upon him or not, or 
whether he really did entertain any 
doubt of Jarvis, she could not tell. 
Of course she was unable to speak out 
on the matter, or to defend Jarvis 
openly,' it had all to be done by im- 
plication. That Sir Dene was looking 
unusually worn and ill that day was 
plainly observable : he seemed to be 
nearly prostrate, sunk far in a state of 
apathy. 

“I quite think with dear Jarvis, 
that it is no common thief who has 
taken them,” remarked my lady: for 
she continued to pursue the subject 
long after it might have been wiser to 
drop it. “As you said last night. Sir 
Dene, whoever took the diamonds 
must have known they were kept in the 
chest.” 

“ And known where my keys are 
kept too, my lady, when I have not 
got them about me.” 

It was the first time he had spoken, 
and the interruption was a quick one. 
My lady coughed. 

“Ah, 5’'es, no doubt,” she blandly 
said. “ Those diamonds, I fancy, had 
not been looked at for a year Per- 
haps not for considerably more than 
that.” 

No answer. 

“ There is only one possible solu- 
tion of the mystery that occurs to me ; 
and that may not be the true one. 
But you know, dear Sir Dene, one can- 
not help one’s thoughts.” 

Still no answer. Sir Dene was bend- 
ing forward, his hands resting on his 
stick, his eyes bent on the carpet as if 
he were studying its pattern. Lady 
Lydia brought her face a little nearer 
to his, and her low voice took a confi- 
dential tone. 

“ Did that worthless, ungrateful 
fellow, Tom Clanwaring, help himself 
to them before he went away ? It is 
the question I am asking myself, Sir 
Dene. He knew where the keys — ” 

Not quite at the first moment had 
Sir Dene gathered the sense of the im- 
plication. It flashed across him now. 


222 


1 ' 

DENE HOLLOW. 


He started up in fierce passion, grasp- 
ing his stick menacingly. Perhaps 
the fact of his knowing Tom could have 
had nothing to do with the loss, ren- 
dered his anger at the aspersion the 
greater. For it happened that both 
Sir Dene and Gander knew the dia- 
monds were safe six months before. 
Searching the chest in the month of 
June for something wanted, they had 
seen the case then. 

.Rarely had Lady Lydia heard a 
similar burst of reproach from Sir 
Dene’s lips. In spite of the animosity 
which he had been professing for Tom 
latterly, as well as really indulging, 
his true feelings for him peeped out 
now. How dared she so asperse his 
best grandson, the son of his dear 
dead Geoffry, he asked her. Tom was 
a gentleman at heart, and would be 
one always; a true Clan waring, he, 
with all a Clanwaring’s honor — and 
he had a great mind to despatch Gan- 
der to Ireland when the snow had 
melted, that he might bring him back 
to the Dene by force. Things had 
never gone well since Tom left. As 
to that bold baggage up at the Trail- 
ing Indian, it must have been her 
fault more than his ; she was older 
than Tom, and had got ten times the 
brass. Many a light-headed young 
fellow had done as much in his hot 
blood, and repented afterwards, and 
made all the better man for it. Sir 
Dene was a fool for sending Tom away 
— did my lady hear ? — a fool, a fool 
for that, and for a good deal more. 

Thus he went on, saying in his pas- 
sion anything that come uppermost ; 
but no doubt giving vent to his true 
sentiments. My lady became meek as 
a lamb and metaphorically stopped 
her ears.. Especially to the repeated 
insinuation that other folks knew 
where the keys were kept, and the 
diamonds too, as well as Tom : the 
“other folks” pointing indubitably to 
herself if not to her son Jarvis. 

When the storm died out and 
Sir Dene had sunk back in his chd.ir 
exhausted. Lady Lydia made a pre- 
tence of gently tending the fire, talk- 
ing of the snow, and the weather gen- 
erally, and the past night’s company, 
while she did it ; any safe topic that 
occurred to her. She then withdrew 


from the room and left Sir Dene to his 
repose. It would not do, she saw it 
clearly, to say too much about the dia- 
monds while he was in this untoward 
state of mind. That he had a doubt 
of her she felt convinced ; but she was 
not so sure that he doubted Jarvis. 
With her whole heart she wished the 
wedding over and the diamonds re- 
placed. Had it been in her habit to 
pray, she would have prayed that 
Tuesday night might arrive on eagle’s 
wings- 

Meanwhile, as the day wore on, 
some uneasiness was excited in the 
Arde family, at the non -arrival of its 
master. The Hall was in a vast com- 
motion of preparation, not only for 
the wedding itself, but for the dinner 
entertainment that was to be given on 
its eve, Monday night. Towards Sat- 
urday night, the non-appearance of 
Mr. Arde was explained. Some farm- 
ers, making their slow way home from 
Worcester market, brought word that 
the London coaches, including the 
mail, had not been able to reach Wor- 
cester, from the impassable state of 
the roads. Report spoke of “ moun- 
tains of snow” in the low-lying lands 
around Moreton-in-the- Marsh. Mr. 
Tillett of Harebell Farm, knowing that 
Mrs. Arde was anxious and uneasy, 
called at the Hall to tell her this. 

“Dear me!” she exclaimed at the 
news. “ Will the coaches not be able 
to get in to-day, think you, Mr. 
Tillett?” 

Looking out on the snow, remem- 
bering what the signs abroad were, 
Mr. Tillett thought it hardly likely 
that the coaches would get in. 

“ If any one of them does, it will be 
the mail,” he remarked. “ That is 
sure to make its way when it can, on 
account of the letter bag.” 

“ I suppose it is bad between this 
and Worcester?” said Mrs. Arde. 

“ Worse, ma’am, than I have ever 
known it. In places I hardly thought 
I should get my horse along.” 

“ A pretty long while some of the 
people must have been, getting home 
last night from the dinner at Sir 
Dene’s I” exclaimed Mary. 

Mr. Tillett laughed. “ They’d ar- 
rive in time for breakfast. Miss May. ” 

“Mamma,” said Mr ' an eager 


A DISH OF TEA AT THE FORGE. 


223 


kind of tone after Mr. Tillett was gone, 
“ if it’s like this, we shall not be able 
to dine at Beechhurst Dene to-mor- 
row.” 

“Nonsense, May. There can be no 
difficulty at any time in going that 
short distance. Besides, the upper 
road is not one for the snow to lie 
upon ; it slopes slightly on the one 
side, you know.” 

May sighed. Only the not dining 
at the Dene on the morrow in the 
company of Jarvis Clanwaring, would 
have seemed a relief. Now that the 
union with him was drawing near, all 
her old horror of it had returned. She 
hated it and dreaded it in what seemed, 
even to herself, a most wicked degree. 
And yet — how was she to help it ? 
She did not know, poor girl. Many 
and many a minute did she pass, pray- 
ing on her knees to God, that He 
would pity her and help her to put 
away the sin. 


CHAPTER XXXYir. 

A DISH OP TEA AT THE FORGE. 

Christmas day. Before the morning 
had well dawned, the children from the 
gate-keeper’s lodge trooped up to 
Beechhurst Dene, were admitted by the 
servants, and gathered themselves in a 
group at the top of the stairs, near the 
doors of the best chambers, to sing 
their carol. It was a universal cus- 
tom, this carol-singing in those days ; 
and as a rule, servants in every great 
house were up early, expecting it. 
Gander had been on thorns, wishing to 
get into his rhaster’s chamber to see 
how he had slept, and to take him some 
tea ; but as Sir Dene chose to be first 
of all aroused on Christmas day by the 
carol singing, almost as if it were a 
religious rite, and that nothing else 
should previously disturb him, Gander 
waited. 

The carol chosen by the children 
this year — or rather chosen for them 
by older heads — was a new one, called 
“ The Carnal and the Crow.” It was 
tolerably long. At the first verse of it, 
Mrs. Letsom’s little ones in their 
white night-gowns were peeping down 
through the balustrades above. While 


below, collected near the foot of the 
stairs to listen, stood all the servants, 
including Gander. Partially hiding 
themselves, however, that the sight of 
them might not daunt the shy young 
carol singers. The verses well through 
to the end, came the final benediction, 
spoken, not sung. 

“Wish ye a merry Christmas, Sir 
Dene, and ladies and gentlemen all, 
and a happy New Year, and a many on 
’em I” 

The little white night-gowned people 
above clapped their hands; the ser- 
vants clapped theirs, and applauded. 
Now it had been the invariable custom, 
during this applause, for Sir Dene’s 
door to open from the inside and a 
small shower of sixpences, agreeing 
with the number of singers, to be 
pitched forth among them. Be 3^ou 
very sure the singers looked for this 
observance with eager eyes. But on 
this morning they looked in vain. 
The door remained closed. 

“ Come you down, dears,” called out 
gently one of the head women-servants, 
breaking at length the waiting pause. 
“Come down to your hot coffee. Sir 
Dene’s asleep, maybe ; he’s not well 
just now. He’ll send you out his six- 
pences later.” 

For a good breakfast was always pro- 
vided for them in the kitchen. And again 
on New Year’s morning, with a second 
sixpence. For the same ceremony 
took place then. Only the carol chosen 
was a different one, and the after wish 
for a merry Christmas omitted. 

In obedience to the call, the children 
went down as quietly as their timid 
feet allowed them. And Gander went 
up. Maybe he’s not well enough to 
get out o’ bed himself, ran his thoughts 
in regard to his master, and is wait- 
ing for me to fetch the sixpences. I 
know he had got ’em put ready last 
night. 

Knocking gently at the door, and 
receiving no response. Gander went in. 
The chamber appeared to be just as he 
had left it the previous night, none of 
the curtains undrawn. Turning to the 
bed, he saw his master. 

“ The Lord be good to us I”ejaculated 
Gander. 

For Sir Dene Clanwaring was lying 
with his face drawn, and apparently 


224 


DENE HOLLOW. 


senseless. He bad some kind of attack : 
probably paralysis. 


Mr. Priar pronounced the attack to 
be a very slight one, quite unattended 
at present with danger. But there was 
no warranty th at another might not suc- 
ceed it, and the doctor enjoined strict 
quiet in the chamber and out of it. 

‘‘141 lay a guinea as it comes o’ 
the worry about them there dia- 
monds I” was Gander’s private com- 
ment to Otto Clan waring. 

There was no dinner company. A 
message was dispatched to inform the 
Ardes of what had occurred and to 
stop their coming. Neither did any 
of the Beeclihurst Dene people attend 
morning service, although it was both 
Sunday and Christmas day, the snowy 
state of the roads preventing it as 
much as the state of Sir Dene. The 
Ardes and their servants went ; but 
they were nearer the church. Mrs. 
Arde and Mary would dine quietly at 
home. Captain Clauwaring their only 
visitor. It was the Captain who had 
carried down the news of what had 
occurred, and there got his invitation. 
The Miss Dickereens were not sent for 
as on the previous Christmas day : 
perhaps Mrs. Arde thought they might 
not care to encounter the snow. Mrs. 
Arde was thoroughly put out by the 
prolonged absence of her husband. 
His decision was wanted on many de- 
tails connected with the wedding, and 
he was not there to give it. 

As to Mary, in her heart she could 
very well have dispensed also with 
Captain Clanwaring. Never had she 
felt more wretched than on this day. 
Try as she would she was unable to 
rail}" her spirits. A weight, as of im- 
pending evil, seemed to lie upon her : 
and had the coming Tuesday been to 
witness her hanging instead of her 
wedding, she could not have looked 
forward to it in a more gloomy spirit. 
As she recalled the happiness of the 
last Christmas, a half groan burst 
from her lips : the contrast between 
that day and this was so great. Then 
she had wondered wdiether things 
could ever look cloudy again; now 
the secret cry of her heart was — that 
never again could they look bright. 
Ah, should not experience have taught 


her a lesson ? That unclouded bright- 
ness had all too soon faded into a 
darkness as of night : might not the 
present darkness clear itself into day ? 
Heaven was at work for Mary Arde, 
though she knew it not. 

“ I suppose, Miss May, there’s no 
reason why I may not run home,” 
spoke Susan Cole, toward dusk in the 
afternoon. “ They’ve invited me there 
to take a dish o’ tea.” 

“ Why should there be ?” replied 
jiMiss May, with apathy. 

“You won’t want me, I mean? I 
thought you’d be out you see. Miss 
May, when I promised to go. Mother, 
she’s getting old now, and looks out 
for one,once she expects one’s coming.” 

“ I shall not want for anything, 
Susan,” said May, rousing herself. 
“ You’ll have a fine snowy walk, 
though.” 

“I’ll borrow a pair of Mark’s gait- 
ers and pick my petticoats up around 
me,” was Susan’s unceremonious 
avowal. “ ’Twon’t hurt me.” 

“ I am glad to dine at home for my 
part, instead of at the Dene,” re- 
marked May. 

Susan shook her head. “ Miss May, 
I don’t like them break-ups to old 
customs. For ever so many years 
now, until the last, the Hall has dined 
at the Dene on Christmas day; and 
the Dene with the Hall on New Year’s 
day. Last year ’twas broke through. 
The master here warn’t well enough 
to go to the Dene, or thought he 
warn’t, and so none of you went : and 
when. New Year’s day came round. 
Sir Dene, he warn’t well enough to 
come here. ’Twas odd that the cus- 
tom of both days should be inter- 
rupted. I said then ’twas like a 
break-up. Miss May ; and so it have 
proved. All the rest o’ Beechhurst 
Dene come here, but Sir Dene. He 
didn’t though ; and he is the master.” 

“ The rest did not quite all come,” 
said May, quietl^^ 

“All but Mr. Tom. And he ceased 
to be one o’ the Beechhurst Dene 
folks that same night.” 

“ Yes.” said May. “ Turned from it.” 

“ Served him right,” retorted Susan. 
“ What did he get into mischief for ?’’ 

May’s face took a sudden glow of 
color, red as a fire coal. 


A DISH OF TEA AT THE'FORGE. 


225 


I wish I was over in Paris, or 
somewhere,^’ she suddenly exclaimed, 
after a pause, “ and all this worry 
over.’’ 

“ What worry ?” questioned Susan, 
the wedding, and the people.” 

“ Weddings come but once in a life- 
time. It’s right to have a show and 
bustle over ’em, Miss May.” 

May, seated on a low toilette chair 
covered with white dimity, for the col- 
.loquy was taking place in her bed- 
room, began scoring her blue silk dress 
across with her nail, and made no 
answer. Very prett}^ she looked. Her 
cheeks were somewhat thinner than of 
yore, but they had not lost their rose 
color; her beautiful soft brown eyes 
were lustrous still ; her hair was 
bright. The allusion to Paris meant 
more than the chance remark the 
reader may have imagined it to be. 
A visit to Paris in those days was a 
ver3" uncommon thing, and Captain 
Clanwaring had proposed to take May 
there after the marriage. They were 
not to settle down in a home yet 
awhile, for some months, at least, but 
take their pleasure. In fact, the ques- 
tion of where the home should be was 
left in abe^^ance. Mr. and Mrs. Arde 
naturally wished it to be near them ; 
Captain Clanwaring secretly wished 
they might get it. He could not live 
long away from London and its attrac- 
tions, and did not mean to try to. 
“ Once she’s my wife, safe and sure, 
she will have to do as I please,” he 
told himself. And to prev^ent the 
question of their future home being 
decided beforehand, he had ingeni- 
ously labored to inoculate his bride 
elect with a wish to see Paris and its 
wonders, which he had never seen 
himself, as well as other places. Poor 
May thought that seeing wonders 
might help her to bear her lot — which 
in prospective was looking cruelly 
hard, whatever it might prove in 
reality. She had her private thoughts, 
also, as well as he. Once I am his 
wife, I shall be able to put away all 
these old regrets and longings and 
misery. And the further I am away 
from here, the better chance there’ll be 
of my doing it. Nothing like old asso- 
ciations for keeping up old feelings. 
So the proj)Osal of sojourning in Paris, 
14 


London, Bath and elsewhere, had been 
rather eagerly received by Mary. In 
summer they were to come on a visit 
to the Hall. 

“ Talking o’ Tom Clanwaring, that 
there girl’s back again at the Trailing 
Indian,” cried free tongued Susan, 
with her usual lack of regard to what 
was expedient to be spoken of, and 
what was not.” 

May lifted her head in a kind 
of quick surprise, and dropped it 
again. 

“ I come out o’ church to-day with 
Natty Pound,” continued Susan. 
“ While picking our way through the 
snow in the church-yard, she began a 
telling me that Emma Geach was 
back — may be the sight o’ Mr. Geof- 
frey Clanwaring’s grave stone put her 
in mind on’t. Sam Pound called in 
at their cottage yesterday, and told 
’em ; she got home Frida}'^ evening by 
the wagon. Sam’s in a fine way over 
it, his mother says, afraid he won’t be 
wanted at the inn no longer, now she’s 
come. And a nice stock of impudence 
she must have to take Black by storm 
in that way, without saying with your 
leave or by your leave, now she’s got 
tired of Ireland I” added Susan, on 
her own score. “ Or, perhaps, it is 
that Ireland have got tired of her.” 

“ That’s enough,” coldly i?;\terposed 
Miss May, rising from her seat with 
a haughty gesture on her way to quit 
the room. “ These things are noth- 
ing to me.” 

Neither had Susan Cole supposed 
they were or could be anything to her 
now. But in Susan’s insatiable love 
of retailing gossip, she had not been 
able to keep her tongue still. 

“ Won’t 3'ou dress now. Miss May V* 

“I shall not dress to-day more 
than I am dressed.” 

“ Well, and I don’t see that there’s 
need on’t,” acquiesced Susan. “That’s 
a lovely, pretty frock, that silk is.” 

The frock — as a young lady’s dress 
was invariably styled then — was of 
that dark bright blue color called 
Waterloo blue, after the somewhat re- 
cent battle of W aterloo It was made in 
the fashion of the day — low-neck and 
short sleeves,each edged with a quilling 
of white net, a bit of drooping lace fall- 
ing beneath. Only a young girl did May 


223 


DENE HOLLOW. 


look in not much more than a child. 
Susan watched lier down the stairs ; 
the graceful head thrown back further 
than usual. 

“ It’s a sore point still, I can see, 
about that Emma Geach,” muttered 
Susan. “ Why couldn’t Tom Clan- 
waring have kept her there till the 
wedding was over and Miss May gone? 
He—” 

Tlie words were stopped by the re- 
turn of May. “ Susan, mind ^ou 
give your mother that little present I 
left out for her, and be sure you take 
her some of our mince pies,” she said. 
“And tell her — tell her that I will be 
sure to come and see her the first 
thing when I am back here again in 
summer.” 

In her red cloth cloak and dark poke 
bonnet, with her petticoats gathered 
up nearly to the tops of the beaver 
gaiters, thick shoes on, and no 
pattens, for pattens were only an en- 
cumbrance in the snow, their rings 
getting clogged continually, away 
started Susan at the dusk hour to par- 
take of the “dish of tea” at her 
brother’s forge. It was open road all 
the way, and less difficult to traverse 
than she had expected. The forge 
was waiting for Susan ; though rather 
doubtful as to her coming. Mrs. Cole, 
the mother, a mild loving woman 
always, doubly so now she was 
getting in years, sat in her arm 
chair in the full warmth of the par- 
lor fire, with her two sons, Harry, 
the prop and stay of the home and 
business, and Ham, who shoed the 
horses, beat the iron, and did the other 
rough work. They were good sons: 
and it was that Harry, so good-look- 
ing and popular, had kept single 
for his mother’s sake. On the table 
stood a substantial tea: plumb cake, 
cold savory sausages, and plates of 
buttered toast that the young servant 
brought in. One guest had already 
arrived, uninvited ; and that was Miss 
Emma Geach. In the old days Emma 
Geach had made herself tolerably at 
home at the forge : and after ill re- 
port had touched her name, gentle 
Mrs. Cole, willing to “think no evil,” 
had received her and been kind to her 
as before. 

“ That’s Susan I — I thought she’d 


come,” exclaimed Ham, as a thumping 
was heard at the door, together with a 
stamping of feet. “ She’s knocking 
the snow off her shoes.” 

Ham (a contraction of his name 
Abraham) ran to admit her and took 
the opportunity of holding a whispered 
colloquy on the mat, the parlor door 
being shut. 

“I say, Susan, Emma Geach is in 
there !” 

“ Xone of your stories. Ham !” 
cried Susan, sharply. 

“She bolted in just now, a saying 
she was come to have tea with us, if 
mother ’ud let her, for it was awful dull 
work up at the Trailing Indian,” con- 
tinued Ham. “She’s just the same, 
Susan.” 

“ What did mother say ?” was 
Susan’s indignant question. 

“ Say ? Why, nothing ; except that 
she was welcome. You know what 
mother is.” 

“ And Harry ?” 

“ Harry’s the same as mother for 
being civil to people,” returned Ham. 

“Ive a good mind not to go in,” 
said Susan. “ Perhaps I might get 
telling her a bit o* my mind.” 

“ I’d not do that, Susan — it’s Christ- 
mas day. Besides, her affairs isn’t 
any business of yours. She has not 
harmed you.” 

“ I’m not so sure o’ that,” disputed 
Susan, sharpl3^ “ ’Twas not by 
straightforward means she got Tom 
Clan waring into her clutches, I know 
— and I nursed him all through his 
baby years. Is she going to stop to 
tea with us ?” 

“ Well,” said Ham, simply, “ we 
can’t turn her out. Neither mother 
nor Harry ’ud like to do it, Susan.” 

Susan, arming herself for any pos- 
sible battle, went in with her head up. 
Miss Geach looked completely at 
home. Her out-'door things were off ; 
her abundant hair, well cared for, 
shone in the light of the fire, and she 
was talking and laughing with Harry 
Cole in the old light, free manner. 
Susan, after greeting her mother, took 
off her things, and sat down to make 
tea. It might be that her propensity 
to gossip and to have her curiosity 
somewhat appeased as to the past, 
induced her to postpone hostilities, 


A DISH OF TEA AT THE FORGE. 


227 


for she nodded to Miss Emma without 
much show of disdain. 

“ And when did you get back,” 
demanded Susan, when she handed 
the young person her tea. 

“ Friday night,” said Emma. 

“ Oh. ‘ Had a stormy passage on’t ? 
IVe heered it’s mortal bad at sea at 
this season o’ the year.” 

“ Whether Emma Geach did not 
understand the allusion, or whether 
she would not take it, remained a 
question. After staring at the speaker 
for a minute or two in silence, she 
tasted her tea and asked for another 
lump of sugar. 

“ And Ireland ? What sort of a 
place might it be to live in ?” began 
Susan again, satirically. 

Another stare from Emma Geach. 
She had got a saucerful of tea up to 
her mouth then, and gazed over the 
brim at Susan all the while she drank 
it. 

** How should I know what sort of 
a place Ireland is?” she retorted, 
when putting the saucer down. Susan 
Cole looked upon it as an evasion, and 
was in two minds, w^hether or not to 
tell her so. But at that moment her 
brother Harry kicked her under the 
table, and she knew it was as much as 
to say, she’s our guest for the time, 
and must be treated as such. 

So the conversation turned on other 
matters. Sir Dene’s seizure ; and the 
non-gathering at the Dene for the 
Christmas dinner in consequence, 
which Susan told of. Next the pro- 
longed absence of Mr. Arde came up, 
and the old lady expressed a devout 
hope that he would be home for the 
wedding on Tuesday. 

“What wedding? Who’s going to 
be married ? ” inquired Miss Geach, 
when she heard this. 

“ Why, my young lady. Miss May’s 
a going to be married,” said Susan, 
proud of relating so much. “ Have 
you lived in a wood, Emma Geach, 
not to have heered on’t ? ” 

“ That there Trailing Indian’s worse 
nor a wood now, as far as hearing 
news goes,” was Emma Geach’s rather 
wrathful answer. “ ’Tain’t lively at 
the best o’ times ; but nobody cares to 
come up to it through the snow. Since 
I got into the place, I’ve not seen a 


soul but Black and Sam Pound. 
Black, he’s sullen and won’t talk ; and 
t’other knows he must keep his tongue 
still afore me, unless I choose to let 
him wag it. No fear as I should ha’ 
got to hear of a wedding being agate 
from them two.” 

“ We’ve got a grand dinner o’ Mon- 
day night,” spoke Susan, by way of 
continuing her revelations. “ The 
Hall be a’ most turned inside out. I 
can’t think what’ll be done if the 
squire don’t get here.” 

“ Report says that no coaches are 
getting into Worcester,” said Harry 
Cole. “ It’s to be hoped the roads ’ll 
clear for the wedding.” 

“ So ’tis,” said Susan, “ They be a 
going to Paris and France, the}' be, 
when the wedding’s over. Miss May’s 
full on’t.” 

“ My I ” exclaimed Emma Geach. 
“ It’s young Squire Scrope, I sup- 
pose ? ” 

“ Miss Charlotte Scrope’s to be 
bridesmaid,” went on Susan, her 
thoughts too busy to heed the ques- 
tion. “ She and Miss May is to be 
dressed all in white ; only Miss May’s 
to have a veil and orange flowers in 
her bonnet, and Pother’s not.” 

“ I thought Miss May Arde would 
have him some time if he stuck up to 
her well,” remarked Emma Geach. 
“ Though Tom Scrope isn’t the man 
for every girl’s money. Scrope Man- 
or’s a nice place. ’Tain’t a bad match 
for her.” 

“ Who was a talking anything about 
Tom Scrope, pray ? ” loftily demanded 
Susan. “ ’Tisn’t 

“ No 1 Why who is it then ? ” 

“ Captain Clanwaring. That Trail- 
ing Indian must be a wood, for news, 
it must.” 

The revelation seemed to have some 
effect on Emma Geach. A’ piece of 
plum cake, being conveyed to her 
mouth, was summarily arrested half 
way; her face became of a burning 
red, and then changed to a deadly 
whiteness. 

“ Captain Clanwaring I It’s him 
that’s going to marry Miss Arde ? ” 

“ Well, I’m sure ! Perhaps you 
know better than me,” cried Susan. 
“ It’s Captain Jarvis Clanwaring, and 
nobody else, Emma Geach.” 


228 


DENE HOLLOW. 


Emma Geach appeared to be mak- 
ing ail effort to recover her surprise — 
or, at least to hide it. She was eat- 
ing away at the cake with a great 
show of appetite, and looking at it 
closely as if trying to count the plums. 

“ Once get away from a place for a 
few months, and all sorts o’ changes 
takes place to surprise one,” she said 
with an air of indifference. “ Since 
when has he been a making up to 
her ? ” 

“ Since when,” repeated Susan, 
“ Well, it’s a’most a twelvemonth since 
he asked her first. She’d have nothing 
to say to him then ; no, nor for a long 
while after. He’s got her now, though ; 
leastways, will have her Tuesday next ; 
but 1 don’t believe any man ever strove 
so hard for a girl yet, as the captain 
have for her.” 

“And a twelvemonth he have been 
a trying for her ?” casually remarked 
Miss Emma. 

“Ay,” assented Susan, “And he 
had begun it in secret afore that ; only 
he^lidn’t dare to say nothing. I say, 
mother, have yeTieard that Mr. Otto’s 
to be his groomsman, through the heir 
not being able to come for’t 

“Mr. Otto, is he?” returned the old 
mother. “ I wish ’twas better weather, 
Susan. I’d ha’ liked to walked to the 
church to seem ’em married.” 

“Won’t it be full!” was Susan’s 
answering comment. 

Thus, one topic succeeding another, 
the sociable evening passed away 
About eight o’clock Susan took her 
departure ; absolutely forbidding either 
of the brothers to escort her. She’d not 
have ’em go wading through the snow 
that night, she said ; and as her will 
had been law with them always, they 
obeyed. Harry Cole was ten or twelve 
years younger than she, and Ham 
twenty. 

So Susan set off alone. She had 
got a few 3^ards down the road when 
she heard footsteps after her flounder- 
ing quickly through the snow. Be- 
lieving that one of the two was coming 
in spite of her injunctions, she turned 
round, a sharp reprimand on her lips. 
But it proved to be Emma Geach. 

“I just want to ask you something, 
Susan Cole,” she said, her voice sunk 
to a whisper. “ I had my reasons for 


not saying more afore ’em at the forge. 
What did you mean by asking did I 
have a stormy passage over the sea, 
and how did I like Ireland ?” 

“ Why shouldn’t I ask it ?” returned 
Susan. “ It’s Ireland you’ve been a 
stopping at, as all the world knows.” 

“I’ve not been anigh Ireland,” said 
the girl earnestly". 

“ Not anigh Ireland I” echoed Susan, 
struck with the truthful acceut. 
“ Everybody said you went there.” 

“ What for ?’’ 

“ Well — ’twas said you went with 
Mr. Tom Clanwaring from Bristol, or 
else followed on over the sea after 
him.” 

Even in the starlight, Susan Cole 
could see the puzzled wonder that was 
spread on the girl’s countenance. It 
seemed that just at first she did not 
understand the implication 

“ Why what fools they must be I” 
she indignantly cried when it dawned 
upon her. “ They couldnH think it, 
Susan Cole.” 

“ Everybody thought iC; the whole 
parish from one end on’t to tother, 
thought it,” was Susan’s answer, “ and 
said it too.” 

“Not everybody ; ’twarn’t possible. 
Not Black — nor Captain Clanwaring.” 

“Both o’ them did,” said Susan 
emphatically “ ’Twas Black I believe 
first spread it, and the captain retailed 
it after him. I’ve heerd ’em both.” 

“ They both knowed better.” 

A few minutes longer they talked 
together regardless of the cold night, 
and the depth of snow they stood in. 
Susan Cole went on her way at last 
with uplifted hands. She had heard 
something that nearly stunned her. 

“ May heaven have mercy on my 
poor young lady 1” she groaned aloud 
to the frosty air. “ What a sinner the 
man is 1 — what a good-for-nothing 
hypocrite. Letting the good name of 
another be blackened for his 1 Drat 
the ruts then 1” 

Paying no attention just then to 
where she put her feet, Susan had sunk 
into a drift of snow up to her knees. 
Getting out of it as she best could, 
she shook her feet and petticoats, and 
went on again. A great question lay 
on her mind — ought she to impart 
what she had just heard to her mis- 


THE WEDDING DAY. 


229 


tress ? — or keep silence on the point, 
now that the wedding was so near ? 

Perhaps what really turned the scale 
was Susan’s love of gossip. With a 
story like this burning her tongue, it 
was next to an impossible task for her 
to keep silence. After Mrs. Arde 
went to her chamber for the night, she 
found it invaded by Susan. 

The woman whispered her tale, the 
substance of what Emma Geach had 
said, standing with her mistress on 
the hearth-rug. As the red light 
pla3'ed on Mrs. Arde’s face, Susan 
saw it take a pale hue, a haughty ex- 
pression. That she was overwhelmed 
with dismayed indignation at the first 
moment was all too evident. The 
next she had burst out laughing. 

53 53 

“ The girl has been playing a trick 
upon you, Susan. How could you be 
so easily taken in ? Captain Clan- 
waring indeed I Now does it stand to 
reason ?” 

And, so prone to yield to persuasion 
is the human mind, that Susan Cole 
veered round to her mistress’s impres- 
sion. It called up her temper. 

“ The vile huzzy ! — to try her tricks 
upon me ! Let me come across her ; 
that’s all.” 


CHAPTER XXXYIII. 

THE WEDDING DAY. 

Snow, snow, nothing but snow. It 
lay on the ground as persistently as 
though it meant to staj^ with the 
world forever. The tops of the houses 
at Worcester ; the distant Malvern 
Hills ; the trees and hedges, the fields 
and dales intervening between each, 
and the wdiole vast surrounding land- 
scape presented a surface whiter than 
the whitest alabaster. 

In the drawing-room at Mrs. Arde’s 
was a motley comi)any. Motley in 
regard to api)earance. For while 
some of them w^ore the gala attire 
suitable for a marriage, others pre- 
sented quite ail ordinary appearance. 
Take Captain Clanwaring, for in- 
stance : he was in bridegroom’s cos- 
tume ; May, on the contrary, had on 
a homely dress of ruby stuff. The 
Lady Lydia Clanwaring was resplend- 


ent in shining silk and lace. Mrs. 
Arde and her sister were in morning 
gowns. Otto Clanwaring was attired 
to match his brother. Charlotte 
Scrope, the bridesmaid, a pretty girl 
of eighteen, was plain as the bride. 

For this was Tuesday, the wedding 
morning ; and the great question 
agitating those assembled, together 
with two or three others not necessary ^ 
to mention, was — should the marriage 
take place, or should it not. 

When the previous da}’’, Monday, 
did not bring Mr. Arde, and it was 
likewise known that none of the Lon- 
don mails or other coaches, due some 
days now, had reached Worcester, the 
Hall fell into real consternation. 
Captain Clanwaring protested most 
strongly against the ceremony being 
delayed, even though Tuesday morn- 
ing should not bring the squire ; but 
Mrs Arde answered to this, sensibly 
enough, that without her husband 
there could be no marriage, as he was 
bringing the license with him. May 
said^little on the Monday for or 
against ; nothing indeed ; for she as- 
sumed to a certainty that she could 
not be married under these drawbacks. 
The dinner had been held the previous 
night, and was somewhat of a failure 
in its master’s absence. Some of the 
guests, too, could not get there for the 
snow. Mrs. Arde presided ; and her 
sister, who was staying with them, 
helped her to make the best of it. 
And so Tuesdaj^ came in ; and had 
not brought the squire. Mrs. Arde 
then despatched hasty messengers to 
as many friends bidden to the mar- 
riage as were within reach, to say it 
would not take place that day. Sir 
Dene was progressing favorably ; but 
Mr. Priar, together with the phy^sician 
called in from Worcester, enjoined the 
strictest quiet. 

Captain Jarvis Clanwaring was on ' 
the wing early, on his part. While it 
was yet dark he quitted Beechhurst 
Dene, rode into Worcester, and pro- 
cured a license. By ten o’clock he 
was at home again, somewhat sooner 
than he had hoped, and brought word 
that the weather was breaking up. 

“ I cannot risk the chance of its 
being delayed even for a day,” he ob- 
served in some agitation to his mother, 


230 


DENE HOLLOW. 


as he went to attire himself for the 
ceremony. And m}’’ Lady Lydia an- 
swered of course not ; though perhaps 
she had no idea of the imminent peril 
he was in. So Captain Clanwaring 
w^as driven to the Hall, the license in 
his hand ; and m3" lady, with the rest 
of the company at Beechliurst Dene, 
speedily followed. His dismay was 
excessive when he found the ladies 
not dressed, and Mrs. Arde quietly 
saying there could be no wedding that 
day. 

“ It is cruel, cruel !” spoke the cap- 
tain to Mrs. Arde — and liis agitation, 
that he could not quite disguise, spoke 
volumes in that lady’s mind for the 
depth of his love. “ There is no im- 
pediment now; here’s the license; 
and perhaps by the time we are' at the 
church Mr. Arde will be here, for the 
roads are undoubtedly becoming tra- 
versable. Don’t, donH put off the 
wedding: it always brings ill-luck. 
Let Mary dress I” 

Mrs. Arde glanced at her daughter, 
as much as to ask what her decision 
should be — at least the sanguiniBap- 
tain so interpreted it. Mary, caira as 
the snow outside and perhaps as cold, 
shook her head. “ No, no,” was all 
she said. 

“ But, May", my dear May, surely — ” 

“ No, not without papa,” interrupted 
May, cutting short the bridegroom’s 
remonstrance ; and this time her voice 
took a tone of fear. “ I will not be 
married in this uncertainty. My 
father may not be safe.” 

In Captain Clanwaring’s angry vex- 
ation he gave vent to a word, spoken 
contemptuously. “ Safe ! ” Recalling 
himself on the instant, he softly im- 
plored her not to persist in her decis- 
ion, not to invoke ill-luck upon their 
union. May remained quietly firm : 
^ and to the captain’s annoyed fancy, it 
almost seemed that she was glad of the 
respite. 

At that moment, the church bells 
burst out a merry peal. Mrs. Arde, 
though she had sent to the clergyman, 
had forgotten to send to the clerk. 
That functionary had gone to the 
church with the hell-ringers, expecting 
.the wedding party every minute ; and 
tliis was the result. Captain Clau- 
waring, unmiadiul of the cold, threw 


up the window at which they were 
standing. 

“ Listen, May I Surely you will not 
let them ring for nothing.” 

“ Indeed, and I think the wedding 
ought to be to-day, my dear,” spoke 
up old Miss Clewer, from the depths 
of her large white quilted satin bon- 
net, and gray dress of twilled silk. 
“As my grand-nephew observes, a 
put-off wedding sometimes brings ill 
luck : it has resulted within my own 
knowdedge in there being none at 
all.” 

An awful suggestion for the bride- 
groom, flushing his pale face to a fiot 
crimson. Lady Ly’dia came to the 
rescue : not attacking the decision of 
Mary, but of Mrs. Arde. But the lady 
proved to be as firm as her daughter. 
She had never had any intention of 
being otherwise. 

“ My dear Lady Lydia you ask an 
impossibility. I hinted to Captain 
Clanwaring yesterday that the deeds 
of settlement were not signed : can- 
not be until the arrival of Mr. Arde ; 
and now you oblige me to speak out. 
Were it my daughter’s own wish that 
the ceremony should be solemnized, X 
could not accede to it. She cannot 
marry until the completion of the set- 
tlements.” 

Mrs. Arde spoke very decisively*. 
She had of course right on her side, 
and her child’s interests to see to. 
Failing any settlement, all that May 
possessed would become the property 
of the gallant captain. Even he and 
his mother could not decently urge 
that. No more was to be said. It 
would only be putting off the wedding 
for a day, as everybody agreed, say 
until the morrow : now that the 
weather was breaking, a few hours 
would no doubt bring the squire. 
Captain Clanwaring, terribly glumpy, 
had to submit : but he did it with a 
bad grace, not caring to conceal his 
mortification. As to the barrister, 
Otto, he had not spoken a word for or 
against it. 

And so the bells, clanging out in 
their innocence, clanged out still, un- 
conscious that there was no wedding 
to ring for. It had the effect of call- 
ing innumerable gazers to the church, 
from far and near. A report had gone 


THE WEDDING DAY. \ 


231 


about the previous night that perhaps 
the ceremony might be postponed if 
the squire did not arrive : but when 
the bells were heard, it was assumed 
to be taking place. 

Do send to stop the bells, mam- 
ma,” pleaded Ma3^ 

With her whole heart Mrs. Arde 
wished her visitors would depart. It 
was an uncomfortable morning for her. 
No one seemed at ease ; she least of 
any. Soon after-twelve o’clock struck, 
when some of them were preparing to 
go, a party of morris-dancers came on 
to the green. Of course all stayed 
then, and crowded the windows to 
look. 

“ Harriet,” whispered Mrs. Arde to 
her sister, “ I cannot stand this any 
longer ; my nerves have been on the 
strain all the morning and are giving 
away. Do you play hostess for a 
bit.” 

She slipped out of the room, put on 
a warm shawl and hood, and made her 
way- to the foot avenue that ran beside 
the lawn and the approach to it. The 
snow had been swept, and she paced 
it thoughtfully, lifting her face to the 
cold fresh air, and looking through the 
bare side branches at the morris-dan- 
cers. Fleet of foot and not ungraceful 
were those men ; their white attire was 
decorated with all kinds of colored rib- 
bons, that kept time and waved about 
to their steps and their staves. The 
figures were prolonged and the men 
did their best ; at Arde Hall the mor- 
ris-dancers were sure of a meal and a 
largesse, whenever it was a hard win- 
ter and they^ were shut out from their 
legitimate labor. 

Though a tolerably common sight 
in those long-past winters, it was not a 
very frequent one, and idle spectators 
from the road were running in to gaze, 
quite a small crowd of them. The 
disappointed ones, who had been to 
the church and found no wedding, 
happened to be passing back again, 
and flocked in at the large gates. Mrs. 
Arde, pacing the solitary^ avenue, 
chanced to turn her attention from 
the dancers to these spectators, and 
saw amidst them Emma Geach. 

And yet, not exactly amidst them. 
They were thronging the gatc^and 
the railings before the lawn ; this girl 


had drawn herself up close to the 
fence that skirted the side of the lawn, 
as if she did not care to be noticed. 
She stood there, leaning one arm 
against it, her old cloak muffled about 
her and looking at the dancers with a 
listless air. 

Obeying the moment’s impulse, Mrs. 
Arde stepped through the beech trees 
and approached her. Putting aside 
the girl’s naturally bold manners, Mrs. 
Arde had always rather liked Emma 
Geach, and had pitied her isolated con- 
dition — isolated from all good associ- 
ations — at the Trailing Indian. This 
alone might have caused her to accost 
the girl ; but she had another motive. 
At the time the communication was 
made to her by Susan Cole on Sunday 
night, Mrs. Arde fully disbelieved it, 
regarding it as a foolish scandal on 
Captain Clanwaring ; but since then, 
a doubt, a very ugly doubt, had insin- 
uated itself ever and anon within her 
mind ; and instinct now prompted her 
to set it at rest. 

“ Is it y'ou Emma ? I heard you 
were back.” 

“ Yes it’s me,” replied Emma, turn- 
ing her head at the salutation. “ I’ve 
been to the church to see the wedding, 
ma’am ; but it’s said there is to be 
none.” 

“ Not to-day. The squire is ab- 
sent.” 

“ Can’t get home for the choked-up 
roads,” freely remarked Miss Emma. 
“ I had a fine slow journey of it in the 
wagon.” 

“ Where did you come from ?” 

“ Well, I came from Lunnon. No 
need to hide it, that I know of.” 

“ Not from Ireland ?” 

The girl’s eyes flashed with quite an 
angry light. 

“ Yes, I hear that that have been 
brought again me, but it’s false as — ” 

“ It has been said that when yon 
left here you went to Bristol to join 
Mr. Tom Clanwaring,” interrupted 
Mrs. Arde. 

“ When I left here I went straight 
to Lunnon, as I was bid to go by him 
that led me wrong ; and I’ve never 
been away' from it till I took the 
wagon to come down here again.” 

Mrs. Arde gazed in the girl’s face, 
reading it eagerly. There was a sav- 


232 


DENE HOLLOW. 


a(re look in it, a passionate ring in 
her voice, that spoke too surely of 
the naked truth. 

“ It was Tom Clanwaring’s name 
that was coupled with yours, you 
know, Emma, even before you left the 
place.’’ 

“ Mrs. Arde, I never did know it. 
If I had I hain’t sure but I should ha’ 
set it to rights then. ’Twas a shame 
on him for folks to say it. Mr. Tom ! — 
wh}’-, he had alway been as good as a 
brother to me from the time X was 
tliat high” — slapping a lath that ran 
along the fence. “ Leastways, as much 
o’ one as a gentleman can be to a poor 
girl. Mr. Tom Clanwaring is just as 
good and noble and straightforward, 
as t’other is a cheating and lying 
sneak. Black and him must ha’ put 
their heads together, and ly,id it on 
Mr. I’om.” 

“ The other being Jarvis Clan- 
waring?” spoke Mrs. Arde 

“Him, and none other; Jarvis 
Clanwaring. When he had got his 
turn served, he just threw me over, 
Mrs. Arde. He did; and I don’t 
mind who knows it now. It’s six 
months a’most since he’ve been to see 
me, or sent me aught to get a crust o’ 
bread I’ve been nigh upon starving. 
I might lia’ starved outright but for a 
good woman whose room I lodged in ; 
she helped me what she could.” 

“ You are telling me the truth ?” 
asked Mrs. Arde. 

“ It’s the truth — as God hears me. 
I’d a mind to ha’ told it out to Cap- 
tain Clanwaring’s face i’ the church 
this morning when he was being mar- 
ried ; and I think I should ha’ done’t. 
’Twas only the thought o’ one thing 
might ha’ stopped me — aiul that’s the 
trouble and pain ’twould ha’ gave 
Miss Ma}'’. When I heard ’twas him 
she was going to marry I pitied her 
a’most to crying ; a good-for-nothing 
knave like him can’t bring her much 
good.” 

“ You should have told of this be- 
fore to-day, for Miss May’s sake,” 
said Mrs. Arde, sharply. 

“ I knew naught about the wedding 
till the night afore last,” spoke the 
girl ; “ I never knew as he was living 
down at Beechhurst Dene. He let me 
think he was about in places a serving 


with his regiment : but it seems he 
have sold out on’t.” 

“ Where is the baby ?” whispered 
Mrs. Arde. 

“It died when it was born, ma’am. 
And a happy thing too. Jarvis Clan- 
waring, grand as the world thinks 
him, is jist a bad man, Mrs. Arde, made 
up o’ deceit and heartlessness. Bring 
me to him, and I’ll say it to his face. 
He have been up to his ears in debt, 
too, this long while. Perhaps you 
didn’t know o’ that, either ?” 

Mrs. Arde made no answer. The 
morris dancers had brought their per- 
formance to an end ; and the specta- 
tors were coming away. Perhaps 
Mrs. Arde did not care to be seen 
talking to Emma Geach : for she 
wished her good morning, and turned 
toward home. What she had heard 
three parts stunned her. Ma}^ came 
into her chamber almost as she was* 
entering it. 

“ Mamma,” she cried, her face pale, 
her voice beseeching, “you will not 
let this wedding take place before papa 
returns. Promise me I Captain Clan- 
waring is saying — ” 

“ Be at rest. May,” interupted Mrs. 
Arde, bending to kiss her, “.you shall 
cercainly not marry before 3^our father 
is here.” 

And the very emphatic tone, tel- 
ling of strange anger, a little surprised 
Miss May. 


Careering into the faithful city of 
Worcester, the coachman driving his 
four fine horses at a somewhat faster 
speed than their usual majestic pace, 
the guard’s horn blowing blasts of 
importance, went the Royal Mail. 
Along Sidbury, up College street and 
High street, through the cross, and on 
to the Foregate street ; where it finally 
drew up before the two principal inns 
of the town, the Hoppole and the 
Star-and-Garter. People had run out 
at their shop doors to see it pass ; a 
small crowd collected round it almost 
before it stopped ; for it was the first 
mail that had reached Worcester since 
the detention. The supposition pre- 
vailing was, that it was the mail 
known to have been so long on the 
road^the one that started from Lon- 
don the past Friday. The curious 


THE WEDDING DAY 


283 


people running np, were eager to 
know what it had been doing with 
itself, and where the detention had 
been. Quite a chorus of questions 
assailed the guard and coachman as 
they descended from their seats ; and 
then it was discovered that this was 
not the last-mail at all, but the regu- 
lar mail that had made the journey in 
due course and without much delay ; 
having quitted the Bull-and-mouth the 
previous evening. In the check their 
curiosity sustained, they began to 
walk off again, one by one. This was 
Wednesday morning. 

This mail brought but one passen- 
ger : a sharp-looking, active man, who 
leaped out of the inside, and had no 
luggage with him. He was a little 
stared at. It was concluded that his 
business must be of importance, to 
travel in that ungenial weather, and 
risk being buried in the snow on the 
road. 

“ Didn’t you see nor hear nothing o’ 
that there last mail, that have been 
so long a coming?” questioned a 
bystander, of the guard. 

“ No, nothing. It passed W^ood- 
stock, and it didn’t get to Chipping 
Norton ; so must be somewhere be- 
tween the two places,” was the guard’s 
answer. “ But whether it’s above 
ground, or dead and buried below the 
snow, and its folks dead and buried 
'with it, is’ more than I can say.” 

“ Had you much difficulty in get- 
ting along, guard ?” questioned a gen- 
tleman. 

“ No, sir. The worst was between 
Woodstock and Plvesham. In places 
there we almost stuck fast ; but — ” 

“ Can I charter a horse and gig 
from this hotel, guard ? I want one 
immediately ?” 

The interruption, spoken in a sharp 
imperative tone, came from the pas- 
senger. Finding that he could charter 
a horse and gig, he ordered it to be 
got ready without any delay, and ran 
into the Star to drink half a glass of 
brand 3 ^-and-water.” 

“ Wouldn’t you like some breakfast, 
sir ? — or luncheon ?” asked the bar- 
maid. 

“I have not time for either.” 

The gig came to the door, together 
with a man whom the traveller had 


requested should accompany him ; a 
tall, strong young fellow, belonging 
to the Star-and-Garter stables. The 
landlord came out to see them start. 

“ Have you far to go ?” he asked. 

“About three or four miles, I fancy,” 
was the reply. “ I am a stranger in 
these parts.” 

Away they started ; he taking the 
reins himself, and whipping the horse 
into a canter ; turning down Broad 
street, onwards over the Severn 
bridge, and so out of the town that 
way. In due course of time he came 
to the neighborhood of Beechhur.«it 
Dene, and — there arrested Mr. Jarvis 
Clanwaring. It was accomplished 
without the slightest trouble. 

On the Tuesday evening a note had 
been delivered to Captain Clanwaring 
at Beechhurst Dene from Mrs. Arde. 
It stated in unmistakable decisive 
terms, that until the return of Mr. 
Arde there would be no marriage ; all 
things must remain in abeyance. The 
captain could do nothing — save relieve 
his feelings by a bit of hot swearing 
in his chamber. On the following 
morning there was no Mr. Arde; but 
in the course of it Captain Clanwaring 
walked over to the Hall. He did not 
get to see the ladies— which he con- 
sidered very strange. Susan Cole 
brought him a message that Miss May 
was very poorl}" with a headache (and 
not to be wondered at 1) put in Susan, 
in parenthesis, and her mistress was 
busy writing letters. So Captain 
Clanwaring, rather discomfited, took 
his way back home again. He was 
crossing the upper road in a saunter- 
ing kind of manner, his eyes moodil}^ 
bent on the ground to pick his way 
over the snow, which was still lying 
there, when a passing gig came to a 
sudden standstill, its driver leaped 
down, and Jarvis Clanwaring, gentle- 
man, and ex-captain, found himself in 
custody. 

“Curse j^ou, Billing!’* was all he 
said, gnashing his teeth with impa- 
tient rage. For he knew the capturer 
by sight. 

“ ’T would have been done an hour 
or two earlier, captain, but for the 
snow keeping the mail back,” was the 
man’s equable answer. “A fine tether 
you’ve had of it altogether.” 


234 


DENE HOLLOW. 


The arrest was for a very large sum 
of money, and it was ®f no use to 
figlit against it. Persuasion and re- 
sistance would alike be futile, as the 
unfortunate captain knew. Fate is 
stronger than we are. The public ar- 
rest had been witnessed by at least 
two people, one of whom chanced to 
be Mark, th6 servant at the Hall’; and 
the news went about with a whirr. 

The captor and the captured, the 
gig and the supernumerary proceeded 
to Beechhurst Dene. Jarvis was in 
an awful fever to get free ; we should 
have been so in his place. There was 
only one way by which it could be ac- 
cornplislied — by paying the money ; 
or else by bail that was as good as 
money. It was possible, though not 
very probable, that Sir Dene might 
have settled the matter could he have 
been appealed to ; but the state in 
which Sir Dene was lying, partially if 
not quite insensible, put any appeal 
to him out of the question. The heir. 
Dene, was not there ; nobody was 
there but the barrister. 

“ You will give bail for me, Otto?’’ 
said the crest-fallen captain, who felt 
as if he would very much like to shoot 
somebody — perhaps himself. 

“ Couldn’t take Mr. Otto Clanwar- 
ing’s bail,” interposed Mr. Billing, 
grulliy ; for nature had endowed him 
with an uncommonly gruff voice. 
“ Couldn’t accept anybody’s under- 
taking, except the Baronet’s, Sir 
Dene.” 

“ But Sir Dene is ill, you know ; 
paralyzed,” remonstrated fhe unhappy 
captain. 

“ Yes, captain. More’s the pity 
for you.” 

“ If my brother gives you his under- 
taking it will be as sure as Sir Dene’s, 
Billing,” urged the captain. “He — ” 

“ I could not give it, Jarvis,” inter- 
rupted the cautious barrister. “ You 
must know that I am not in a position 
to take a debt upon me that might 
prove an incubus for my life-time. And 
where should 1 get the money from, do 
you suppose, if called upon to pay it ?” 

“ It willstop my marriage,”. breathed 
Jarvis, biting his feverish lips. “1 
have been looking to that to save me 
from this gulf. Those cursed roads ! 
But for Arde’s delay, I should have 


been married and safely away, Otko I 
Stretch a point for me.” 

‘‘ The counsellor’s promise would be 
of no more worth than yours, captain 
— begging pardon of him for saying 
it,” reiterated the sheriff’s officer. 
“ Besides, there’s more behind this,” 
was the candid avowal. 

As Otto Clanwaring had felt fully 
sure of. If this one debt, on which 
Jarvis was arrested, were settled, a 
host of others on which judgment had 
been obtained, lay behind it. In fact, 
it was pretty plain that Captain Clar- 
waring’s career was for the time over. 

“ And my marriage?” he groaned. 
“ What’s to become of that ?” 

“ You could not think of marrying 
Miss Arde, though you were free,” 
urged Otto in his strictness. “ At 
least, without informing them of tlie 
facts. It would be a most dishonorjv- 
ble thing, so to deceive the Arde 
family.” 

“ Halt your cant,” retorted the ex- 
asperated prisoner. 

There’s no loop-hole of escape for 
him ; none. In later weeks, when Sir 
Dene was cognizant of the affair and 
able to converse upon it, he said that 
Jarvis’s sins had come home to him. 
Mr. Billing and the extra man and the 
captain all took their departure to- 
gether in the gig ; the latter wedged 
securely in between the two others. 

When the Lady Lydia Clanwaring 
got home towards dinner time — for 
she with Miss Ann Clewer and Mrs. 
Letsom, finding there would be no 
wedding that day, had driven over to 
spend it in Worcester — she found 
what had taken place. Her beloved 
son, of whom she made a very idol, 
and would have willingly offered up 
all the rest of the world in sacrifice 
at his shrine, had been ignominiously 
conveyed away, a prisoner ; and was 
even then on his road by night coach 
to be lodged in one of the jails of the 
metropolis I My lady rose the house 
with her frantic cries. 

Somebody else got home the same 
evening — and that was Squire Arde. 
For the long-detained mail had con- 
trived to free itself that day, and reach 
Worcester at last: causing a hubbub 
and congratulation that some of tbs 
old citizens may yet remember. The 


THE LAST OF RANDY BLACK. 


235 


first thing the squire heard when 
inside his own doors, was the news of 
Captain Clanwaring’s arrest and of 
his heavy embarrassments. For many- 
tongued rumor had been exceedingly 
busy with the unfortunate captain’s 
fame all the afternoon ; and facts hith- 
erto unsuspected, had come out in a 
remarkable manner. 

Captain Clanwaring arrested I — and 
taken off a prisoner to the Fleet ! — and 
overhead and shoulders in debt and 
embarrassment ! Captain Clanwaring 
who but for these heavy snow drifts 
would now be Mary’s husband I Squire 
Arde turned hot and cold as he listened. 

What an escape it was for Mary ! 
How Jarvis Clanwaring had managed 
to stave off the evil day so long and 
to conceal the true state of things was 
a mystery. The selling of the com- 
mission had been forced. It w'as a 
stop-gap for the time ; since, the Lady 
Lydia and others had helped him, in- 
cluding those harpies, the London 
money-lenders. The indignant squire 
found that his daughter’s money was 
indeed required — that there was urgent 
need of the marriage being hastened. 

“ What an escape 1” aspirated the 
squire in solemn thankfulness. “ And 
I — Heaven forgive me I — murmured 
rebelliously at the delay caused by the 
snow-storm, little thinking that it was 
saving my child I Perhaps God sent 
that detention in his love for her 1” 

Within the privacy of her own 
chamber that night, sitting over the 
fire, Mrs. Arde whispered another item 
of news in her husband’s ear — that 
which was connected with Miss Emma 
Geach. For some little time the 
squire would not take it in : but 
when convinced of its truth, he began 
stamping about the room in wrath so 
great and loud, that poor Mrs. Arde 
begged him to be still lest the house- 
hold should think he was beating 
her. 

“ Let ’em think it I” roared the 
squire. “ The desperate villain ! 
And he w'ould have made a wife of 
iny innocent child 1” 

Hardly giving 'time for morning 
dawn well to set in, the squire stamped 
up to the Trailing Indian to “ have it 
out’’ with Black. He told that worthy 
innkeeper that he was a base villain, 


not a shade better than the other vil- 
lain. That they had sacrificed the 
good name of Tom Clanwaring, and 
nearly sacrificed the life’s happiness 
of Miss Arde. 

And she, Mary Arde : how did she 
take the disappointment relating to 
her marriage ? — to most young ladies 
the breaking off of a marriage is, to 
say the least of it, mortifying. Not 
so with Mary Arde. She was as one 
released from a weight of despair. She 
warbled about the house like a freed 
bird. Susan Cole, who could not have 
kept her tongue silent had she been 
paid to do it, had disclosed to her lots 
of things. The lightness came back 
to Mary’s steps, the color to her 
cheeks ; it was as if some special 
happiness had fallen on her heart 
from Heaven. 

“ She could not have liked him !” 
cried the wondering squire to his wife. 

“ She did not,” said Mrs. Arde. “ I 
fear slie liked Tom Clanwaring too 
well for that.” 

The squire frowned a hideous frown 
at the unwelcome name. Though Tom 
had been shamefully aspersed, and 
been proved innocent where he had 
been thought guilty, he was not the 
less ineligible to be “ liked” by May. 
“ And never will be,” spoke the squire 
hotly. 

And that poor neglected scapegoat 
was never so much as thought of by 
the world, or by Beechhurst Dene. 
Tom Clanwaring was in the place 
deemed most appropriate for him ; 
some remote district of Irish bog, 
working out his sins. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

THE LAST OF RANDY BLACK. 

Turning out of the gate of Harebel 
Farm went Mary Barber. Rare, 
indeed, was the fact of her going abroad 
without any particular object ; and 
3 ’et she was doing so this late after- 
noon. It had been the monthly wash 
that week at the farm ; but the weather 
had been favorable for drying, and the 
close of this day, Wednesday, saw all 
the things done up, and in their at> 


233 


DENE HOLLOW. 


propriate presses and drawers. Mary 
Barber, assisted by one of the women 
servants, had been ironing hard for 
many hours ; and when the early tea 
was over, betook herself out for a walk. 
Partly because she had no other press- 
ing employment to get to, chiefly that 
she had an unusual feeling upon her of 
being stifled indoors. So, putting on 
her every-day shawl and bonnet, away 
she went. 

“ Curious I should feel as if I wanted 
fresh air, me 1 ” she said half aloud. “ I 
must be getting old ; that’s it ; and I 
be getting old, for that matter. Well, 
I’ve had my health and strength better 
nor most people ; and there’s some 
good work in my arms yet. Suppose 
I’d had a weak heart, as my poor sis- 
ter had 1 — and died of it as she did ! 
Them boys of hers be getting on like 
a house afire ; quite gentlefolk they be 
now, though me, their auut Mary Bar- 
ber, can’t be called much else but a 
upper servant.” 

Walking up Harebell lane, she 
glanced at the budding hedges on 
either side, at the springing grass. It 
was only February yet, but the most 
lovely weather conceivable, warm 
enough for May. The prolonged and 
heavy snow-storm of the previous win- 
ter seemed to have benefited the earth. 
They would have it cold again no 
doubt ; but just now the days were 
bright and beautiful. Mary Barber 
went along snilfing the air, as if she 
could not enjoy it enough; shut up all 
day with the hot ironing stove, bending 
over the linen she ironed, the freshness 
was only too welcome. The setting sun 
threw its golden rays slantwise ; birds 
were chirping their last song before set- 
ting down in their nests, all nature 
seemed glad. Primroses and violets 
nestled in the banks of the shady lane ; 
hard Maiy Barber actually stooped and 
gathered some. She was feeling less 
hard than usual that evening. Life 
had been all prose for her, no poetry 
at all in it. Perhaps it was the unusual 
w^eariness that softened her ; not ex- 
actly weariness of limb but weariness 
of si)irit. Her thoughts were running in- 
to a groove not at all customary. 

Says Richard Pickering to me 
’tother morning in Worcester when I 
ran again him coming out o’ the hop 


market, ‘ You should not stay on at 
Harebell Farm, Aunt Mary’— ’a calling 
of me ‘aunt for once,’ he did — ’ but 
have a nice little home of your own, 
and live comfortably in it. ’Twas the 
old pride in part made him say it ; 
neither him nor Willie have ever liked 
my being in service, ’specially him. 

‘ We’d help you to the home,’ he went 
on, ‘I and William — we want you to 
have rest, Mary.’ And he’s right I 
sa}^ ; for I am beginning to feel the 
need o’ rest, and service is getting 
hard for me. But I don’t care to be 
helped by them, and what I’ve saved 
isn’t quite enough to keep me yet. 
Bother take it I What has set me on 
o’ these thoughts this evening, I won- 
der ? I think I’ll get Priar to give me 
a dose o’ physic to put me to 
rights. ’Twont’ do to fail i’ my work.” 

Approaching Harebell pond — which 
she did not do once in two years as a 
rule ; no, not in four — the sad fate of 
her former master, Robert Owen, (a 
fate which every one had long ago 
given up all hope of clearing), recurred 
to her. Every circumstance connected 
with it flashed into her mind as viv- 
idly as though it had passed but 3ms- 
terday. The singular dream, when 
she and others, quite a crowd of them, 
seemed to be searching for him up tliis 
very lane and across the fields, all 
bearing for one point, the direction of 
the Trailing Indian ; and the absolute 
later reappearance ; and her visit to 
the inn in the morning when Emma 
Geach was a wailing infant of a few 
hours old, and the mother la3^ in dan- 
ger up stairs ; and the commotion and 
uncertainty altogether, until the water 
gave up its secret ; like the bits of 
glass in a kaleidoscope fixing them- 
selves into their places one alter an- 
other, so the past events rolled through 
her mind. 

She passed the pond with a glance 
and a shudder, slightly quickening her 
steps, A few yards onwards there 
arose a hazy kind of indecision in her 
purpose, whether she should go 
straight on through the gate leading 
into some fields on Sir Dene’s home 
farm that lay beyond, or continue her 
way up the lane — which here took the 
sharp wind to the right. Her feet, 

1 unprompted, as it seemed— for cer- 


THE LAST OP RANDY BLACK. 


237 


tainly she was not conscious of mak- 
ing any decision herself — chose the 
latter. In after life Mary Barber was 
wont to say that an instinct from 
heaven guided her. 

“I’ll go to the end, just as far as 
the turnpike road, and then turn 
back,” she said to herself, finding 
which way her apparently purposeless 
feet had taken her. 

This brought her, as the reader 
must know, past the Trailing Iiulian. 
Mary Barber turned her e3^es upon 
that hostelrie in some curiosity, past 
associations rendering it always a 
place of interest. Since Miss Emma 
Geach’s return to take up her abode 
in it, the inn had shown some slight 
signs of renewed life. That bustling 
damsel, ready' of service, free of tongue, 
made a pleasanter hostess than Black 
and Sam Pound had made hosts ; and 
stragglers were beginning to drop in 
again for half pints of ale or cider. As 
to Sam, his worst fears had been real- 
ized ; he was dismissed. 

The golden beams of the sun, partly 
below the horizon now had turned to 
crimson, and the front casements 
caught the red glow. The side door 
of the inn stood open, but there was 
no other sign of life or habitation 
about the dwelling. It looked very 
solitary, and everything around was 
still, including the evening air. 

“ She’s out,” thought Mary Barber. 
“Elsethere’d be some clatter o’dishes 
going* on ; and her tongue with it. As 
^ to Black — ” 

The words were stopped by" a start- 
ling sound. If ever Mary Barber 
heard a groan of agony, she heard one 
then. Whence did it come ? She 
turned to look about her, and there 
arose another. No mistake now, they 
came from the house. 

“ Anything the matter ? ” she called 
out, making her way to the side 
door. 

A succession of moans answered 
her , painful moans, telling of some 
awful calamity. Mary Barber was 
not timorous , she had seen too many 
ugly sights in her life for that, includ- 
ing ghosts , but it was certain that a 
tremor of fear seized on her then, and 
she would willingly have turned back, 
rather than enter. 


“ What be that ? she asked, halt- 
ing outside the kitchen door. 

My, what was it? Mary Barber 
groaned herself when she went in, and 
saw. 

Randy Black was stretched on the 
kitchen floor, bleeding from a wound 
in the side, his gun lying beside him. 

He had got the gun out intending 
to clean it, unconscious that it was 
loaded. The charge went off and shot 
him. It appeared that he had lent 
the gun to one of his friends, named 
Haxted. 

When the man returned it. Black 
asked if it was charged — and Haxted 
replied no. He had understood Black 
to say, have you drawn the charge ? — 
as was explained when too late. 

Whatever ill had encompassed 
Black’s life, Mary Barber could but 
feel the deepest compassion for him 
now. Something in his face would 
have told her the injury" was mortal 
without his confirming words, “ It’s 
my death ! It’s my death ! ” 

What could she do alone? Emma 
Geach had gone off to Worcester for 
the Wednesday’s market, and to buy 
herselfysome gowns. While she was 
on her knees, doing what she could to 
stanch the blood, and nearly at her 
wit’s end, y'oung Cole entered : and 
Mary Barber said Providence had sent 
him. 

“You be fleet o’ foot, Ham. Put 
out the best speed y'e’re got, lad, and 
get Priar up here. And list ye,” she 
added, in a whisper, drawing the young 
man’s ear down , “ when Priar’s come 
off, run round to the parson, and ask 
him to please to come. If ever a mortal 
man wanted shriving when his soul 
was on the wing, it must be this un, 
lying here.” 

Apparently" Mr Black was thinking 
somewhat of the same. Whence he 
gathered his deductions, perhaps he 
could not have defined ; but that death 
was close upon him he felt sure and 
certain. And — strange though it may 
be to say it of this hardened and bad 
man, whose whole life had been 
marked by recklessness ; who had 
laughed at death, and set it, and what 
must come after it, at defiance, as a 
thing that could not concern him — he 
was now shrinking from it in affright, 


DENE HOLLOW. 


2S3 

the veriest coward 1 Such instances 
have been known — where this awful 
terror has assailed a soul at the close 
of an ill-spent life. It was not the 
life so suddenly cut short that the 
man was regretting : that appeared 
not to give him a thought ; it was the 
dread judgment to which he was has- 
tening. 

Mary Barber turned him round, for 
he had been lying on the wound, and 
found a pillow to put under his head 
on the kitchen bricks, and gave him a 
sup of brandy, which he asked for. 
The bleeding seemed to stop, and he 
was in less pain. 

“ When did it happen ? ’’ she asked. 

“ On’y just afore you come,” 
groaned Black. “ I’d got the gun- 
muzzle up’ards, and was a turning 
round to light a candle.” 

And then he gave vent to words 
and plaints and cries, that surely 
would never have been wrung from 
him in health ; ay, and prayers. Pray- 
ers that he would at all times have 
scoffed at. Prayers for mercy : pray- 
ers to be let perish forever as a dog, 
and be no more heard of after death 
Mary Barber was horrified ; she com- 
passionated him with her whole heart ; 
she knelt down, raising her hands to- 
gether, and asked for pardon for him 
even at that, the eleventh hour. The 
man was beside himself with fear. He 
called fur more brandy, and when she 
hesitated to give it him, he swore at 
her in some of the worst language he 
had ever used in his wild career. The 
next minute he was beseeching her 
and Heaven alike to forgive him. She 
administered a little brandy ; not 
much ; for she was afraid to do it 
without the sanction of Mr. Priar. 

“ Priar’ll be up soon. Black,” she 
said ; “ you shall have it then, if he’ll 
let you.” 

The man’s faculties appeared to be 
almost supernaturally clear , his intel- 
lect and memory bright as they had 
ever been in life ; his reason as free 
but a degree of physical exhaustion 
came on, and then he lay compara- 
tively still. Mary Barber seized upon 
the interval to tell him about the thief 
on the cross, and Black hushed his 
breath while he listened. 

“ He had been bad, too, Black, that 


man had ; but the Saviour pardoned 
him. With the Lord it is only to re 
pent, and ask, and have.’’ 

Black turned his head about on the 
pillow and moaned and sighed and 
muttered : but was still quiet. A 
thought came into the woman’s mind, 
and she promptly acted on it. 

“I’d like to ask you one thing. Black, 
while there’s time ; ’twon’t hurt you to 
answer it now, one way or t’other. 
The bag of money stole from Sir 
Dene’s parlor that New Year’s day— 
was it you took it ?” 

“ Was it me took it ?” retorted 
Black with a touch of his old fierce- 
ness. “ What d’ye mean 1 ” 

“ Some of ’em be a suspecting Tom 
Clanwaring on’t still, as it strikes 
me,” w'as her reply. Only this very 
morning Squire Arde, who come up 
to the farm a w^anting to see the mas- 
ter, stood by my ironing-board, a 
talking on’t. I said ’twas curious Mr. 
Tom didn’t come back now things 
again had been cleared up : at that 
the squire went quite into a passion, 
and said things again him were not 
cleared up, • and the fellow was not 
wanted back. It could have been noth- 
ing but the money he was thinking of, 
Black : there’s nought else l3’ing 
against Mr. Tom now.” 

Black’s eyes were cast up towards 
her ; dark and almost fierce as ever 
were they. But he made no answer. 

“ Tom Clanwaring never harmed 
3mu, Randy He showed himself 
friendly" alwa3’'s, and did you many^ 
good turn : if ’twas you took the 
money, you might confess it now, for 
his sake.” 

“ The man as took the bag o’ money 
was Captain Clanwaring.” 

“ What ?” cried Mary Barber, inter- 
rupting the hoarse, deep tones. 

“ The man as took the bag o’ money 
was Jarvis Clanwaring,” repeated ‘ 
Black. “ I swear it with my dying 
breath.” 

Maiy Barber peered into Black’s 
face, believing his senses were desert- 
ing him. He saw the doubt. 

“ That there Saturday night, soon 
after I got home here m3^self, up come 
Captain Clanwaring. He owed me 
money, and he had got frightened for 
fear I should let out things he didn’t 


THE LAST OF RANDY BLACK. 


239 


want let out — for in the morning j 
told him I’d do it if he didn’t pay me. 
He gave me just half what he owed : 
and 1 wondered where he got it from, 
for he was hard up, hisself, as any 
poor devil — ” 

“ Was it for bacca he owed it ?” she 
interrupted. 

“ No, ’twarn’t for bacca,” retorted 
Black, resenting either the question 
or tlie interruption. “ ’Twas put upon 
bacca, and that’s enough. Just a few 
days after. Squire Arde was here, and 
began a fishing to know whether ’tTvas 
me took Sir Dene’s bag o’ money, 
^was the first time I’d heered of any 
money being stole : and I knew at 
once who ’twas that had took it, and 
wliere Captain Clanwaring had got his 
money from. I see the bag in his 
Lands, and the notes and gold in it.” 

“ That there Captain Clanwaring 
must have as many sins to answer for 
as 3^ou, Black,” spoke Mary Barber, 
'drawing a deep breath. “ Perhaps 
more in the sight of Heaven. Why 
didn’t 3’ou tell o’ this and clear Tom 
Clanwaring ?” 

Black shook his head. “I couldn’t 
tell o’ the captain then, though I’d 
used to threaten it. His interests 
were mine till I’d got my money from 
him in full. And he might ha’ turned 
on me, he might, for he knowed a 
thing or two.” 

It appeared to have been a case of 
rogue cutting rogue. That Captain 
Clanwaring and Black were mutually 
afraid of each other, and had acted in 
accordance with it, there could be no 
question. 

A perfect yell from Black startled 
Mary Barber out of her momentary 
reflection. His side had burst out 
bleeding again, bringing back all his 
terror. Perhaps in the past few 
minutes, feeling easier in himself and 
believing the bleeding had stopped, 
he had been indulging some faint idea 
of recovery. 

“ I’d lead a different life, I would !” 
he aspirated, as if making a promise 
to the empty air. 

The most welcome sound that ever 
greeted Mary Barber’s ear, was that 
of gig wheels. Mr. Priar and his ap- 
prentice had come speeding up. They 
were followed by Harry Cole and 


others. After apprising the surgeon 
of what had happened. Ham had gone 
on his way to impart the news gene- 
rally. Mr. Priar speedily cleared the 
kitchen of the interlopers pressing 
into it. Mary Barber and Harry Cole 
alone being suffered to remain; and 
the clergyman when he came. 

Alas I nothing could be done to 
save the life that was so swiftly pass- 
ing All the skill of the medical man 
was not able to prolong it by one hour 
beyond its allotted time. Black was 
not moved from his position. On 
the kitchen floor he had fallen, and on 
the kitchen floor he remained to die. 
Some blankets were gently slid under 
him to make it less hard, but he might 
not be disturbed further. 

In the presence of the clergyman 
and doctor, of Mary Barber and of 
Harry Cole, he made a confession ; 
some dim hope that it might serve 
him when he should stand before the 
great Judge in that dread Hereafter, 
urging him to do it. Petty sins were 
avowed, such as smuggling, and 
poaching, and receiving stolen goods, 
a whole catalogue of such things that 
appeared to have been always run- 
ning on. These lighter offences 
Black himself did not seem to think 
much of, but there were others. Grave 
crimes, beside which the lighter sunk 
to little. As the eye estimates things 
as being large or small according to 
comparison, so does the conscience. 
Randy Black had the lives of three 
men on his soul : the peddler, once or 
twice spoken of here, a gamekeeper, 
and Robert Owen. 

The only one of them deliberately 
murdered was the peddler. Stupefied 
by drink, perhaps purposely given 
him, he had been killed in the dead of 
night by Black’s own hand, and after- 
wards buried by him and the hostler, 
Joe : his box of wares, some of them 
real gold and silver, being the in- 
ducing motive. The gamekeeper was 
shot by Black in a night fray, but not 
of deliberate intention, guns were 
going off on both sides. The third, 
Robert Owen, had been wilfully as- 
saulted, but not wilfully murdered. 

That Black was telling the truth 
without disguise, in this his dying 
hour, was all too evident : nay he 


240 


DENE HOLLOW. 


sought rather to make himself out 
worse than better. Once this awful 
hour comes upon hitherto careless 
sinners, there can be no playing at 
bo-peep with the conscience. 

On that long past Easter Sunday 
night, as may be remembered, Mr. 
Owen, after quitting his daughter 
Maria and Geoffry Clanwaring, had 
been traced to the two-acre meadow ; 
theyoungman, Parker, having watched 
him cross it on his way to the cow-shed. 
Subsequent to that no trace of him, in 
life, could be discovered, and this loss 
Black now supplied. 

After leaving the shed, Mr. Owen 
went back across the meadow towards 
his home. In the narrow path so often 
mentioned between the grove of trees 
and the pond, he halted and leaned 
over the fence ; whether without any 
particular motive or from hearing some 
fancied sound that he would investi- 
gate, could never be known. Black, 
concealed in the grove of trees with a 
heavy stick, pushed out and dealt him 
a sudden and violent blow on the back 
of his head. It must have stunned 
Mr Owen hr he fell more forward and 
did not lift himself; Black took him 
b}' the heels and tumbled him over 
into the pond. So he lay there and 
was drowned without a struggle ; his 
senseless condition preventing his 
making any effort to save himself. 

“ As the Lord’s above and hears me, 
I didna mean to kill him,” gasped 
Black, when he had told this. “ Owen 
o’ the farm was a spying on me an’ my 
doings, and I wanted to serve him out 
for it ; break a arm or a leg, or crack 
his skull a bit, and to teach him not to 
come interfering in matters as was 
none of his. But I never meant to 
kill him. I thought he’d scramble out 
o’ the pool sure enough ; I run off 
home here a thinking it.” 

“ But you must have gone out into 
the grove with the heavy stick to 
watch and assault him ?” said the sur- 
geon in answer to this. 

“ So I did,” was the ready avowal. 
“ Things had crossed me that Sunday; 
and I had a lot o’ drink in me. I’d 
slept some on’t off, but not all. While 
Joe was a shutting up, just after I 
woke, that dratted Owen o’ the farm 
come slap into my head. I thought 


I’d go and see whether he was a 
sneaking and peeping then ; and I 
caught up my .stick and went and hid 
i’ the grove and waited. I knew his 
cow was sick, and fancied he might be 
for coming to’t the last thing. But I 
swear I didn’t think to kill him, and 
when I come home here and telled 
Joe, we both chuckled over the sousing 
he’d got, and I went up to bed a pic- 
turing of him trailing home through 
the lane like a drowned rat. Next 
morning, when Joe came creeping to 
my bedside, a saying that Owen hadn’t 
turned up nowhere, and was a being 
inquired for at our house here, I was 
hard o’ belief, a‘nd telled him to his face 
he was a lying fool. No, I never 
killed him wilful.” 

Mary Barber threw her hands over 
her face, and sobbed a sob of emotion. 
Rarely had shebeen so moved. Mem- 
ory was ever busy with her. The 
vivid dream — not less vivid now than 
when she had dreamt it — that had 
surely foreshadowed her master’s 
death, passed through her mind for a 
second time that evening in all its 
details. He passed through it. She 
saw him walking in from church that 
Easter Sunday after partaking of the 
Lord’s supper ; she saw him seated at 
his table’s head entertaining Sir Dene’s 
son and his son-in-law, Geoffry Clan- 
waring ; she saw him stand in the yard 
at sunset, speaking of Joan ; it was 
all before her now. The sun’s rays 
fell across his face, lighting up its re- 
markable beauty. Mary Barber had 
seen many a handsome man in her life, 
gentle and simple ; but never one 
whose form and face equalled his, Rob- 
ert Owen’s. She had suspected Black 
at the time, had suspected him since, 
for her dream liad certainly in some 
vague way pointed to him and his 
home, the Trailing Indian, as being 
concerned in the disappearance ; and. 
now she found that her suspicions were 
true. If Mary Barber had wanted her 
belief in dreams strengthened, this 
would have done it. 

But, if her faith in dreams of the 
night was confirmed, that in regard to 
the appearance of supernatural visions 
was destined at the same time to 
receive a shock. Robert Owen’s ghost 
had not been a ghost. Knowing what 


THE LAST OF RANDY BLACK. 


241 


Mary Barber knew, remembering the 
experiences of her earlier life, and 
what she had once seen in the Hollow 
field, her sister on the stile there, no 
power, human or divine, could have 
shaken her belief in the possibility of 
the dead appearing to mortal eyes. 
In this one instance, regarding her late 
master, she found that she and others 
had been craftily imposed upon. 

The strange figure, appearing to the 
world as a supernatural visitant, and 
popularly believed to be the unfortu- 
nate Robert Owen’s spirit, was, after 
all, only flesh and blood. Black, and 
some of his associates, including Mi- 
' chael Geach, set their heads to work, 
and turned Mr. Owen’s death to good 
account. The happy thought was 
Black’s. They improvised a ghost to 
represent him ; the object, of course, 
being to keep undesirable people away 
from Harebell lane and that part of the 
Harebell fields that overlooked the 
lane. The men who were in the habit 
of stealing up the lane to Black’s with 
booty about them, had been seen so 
many times of late, that they had 
grown afraid, and flatly told Black 
that they must give up the game 
unless something could be done to 
insure greater safety. Robert Owen’s 
ghost effected this. It was far more 
easy to get up a ghost of him than it 
would have been of most people ; for 
there were two most strongly marked 
features — the flowing silvery beard, 
and the magpie cap. A silvery beard 
was procured, and another magpie 
cap ; also clothes and a walking stick 
similar to those used by Mr. Owen 
the night of his death. Michael Geach 
was the ghost. He was as tall as 
Mr. Owen, and had the same well- 
formed handsome cast of features — 
though the shape of features cannot 
be seen very much of at a distance 
by moonlight. Arrayed in the clothes 
and cap, Michael Geach might have 
been sworn to in any moonlight court 
of law as Robert Owen. The best 
j)roof was tliat he deceived Randy 
Black himself 

When Black had burst into his 
house that unlucky night in a state of 
terror not easily imagined or de- 
scribed, and confessed that he had 
seen Robert Owen’s ghost, his terror 
15 


and his belief were alike genuine. 
That the man, hardened though he 
was in crime, had Mr. Owen’s death 
somewhat on his conscience, various 
signs betrayed to those about him. 
Coming home from Hurst Leet that 
bright night, what with the natural 
loneliness of the lane, its weird 
shadow, and its awful pond — awful to 
Black at night since what he had done 
there — it was only to be expected he 
should begin thinking of Robert 
Owen ; a very unpleasant thought, 
which made him quicken his pace past 
the pond. Had it been to save Black’s 
life, he could not have helped turning 
his eyes in a kind of dread fascination 
to the fence above whence Robert 
Owen had fallen. And there, there 
stood Robert Owen himself, that is, 
his spirit, as Black took it to be ; the 
white beard, and the magpie cap, and 
the coat he was drowned in, all con- 
spicuous. 

And now here was a strange thing — - 
that that man, hardened in sin and in 
the world’s worst ways, should have 
been stricken with this most awful 
terror. But that he was so, and this 
is no fiction, it would be scarcely be- 
lievable. The idea that it was Geach, 
never so much as crossed him ; for he 
had reason to believe that Geach was 
a vast number of miles away, on the 
Cornish coast, in fact gone there on 
some secret mission connected with a 
privateer ; that he could be in Wor- 
cestershire, even had the thought sug- 
gested itself. Black would have deemed 
an impossibility, Geach, however, had 
arrived at the Trailing Indian that 
evening during Black’s absence, and 
while waiting for the landlord to come 
in, it occurred to him that he might 
make use of the hour to profit, and he 
arrayed himself in the ghost’s coat — 
which was kept at the inn — and stole 
out to frighten the world ; putting on 
the cap and beard when he was safe in 
the grove of trees. That Geach saw 
the state of terror he sent Black into 
and enjoyed it too much to speak, 
there could be little doubt of, though 
he vowed to Black afterwards that he 
did not recognize him. How ail that 
might have been does not signify ; 
there’s the explanation. 

Perhaps the strangest fact of all 


242 


DENE HOLLOW. 


connected with that strange business, 
was that Black retained his terror. 
Even when he knew after the elucida- 
tion, that the apparent ghost was no 
ghost, but bis friend Michael Geach, 
displaying himself according to cus- 
tom, the terror wholly refused to quit 
him. In spite of reason, in spite of know- 
ledge, in spite of the great fact that 
Robert Owen’s spirit had really never 
come abroad at all, Black lived thence- 
forward in a chronic state of terror 
lest he should see it. It was just as 
though some mortal disease had been 
caught by him that night, and could 
never afterwards be eradicated. Time, 
instead of wearing the impression off, 
only seemed to increase it. He hardl}’' 
dared to go abroad at night ; as the 
years went on, he cared not to remain 
alone in the inn after dark. The day 
of the ghost had, so to say, gone by ; 
its remembrance had nearly faded out 
of the public mind ; and yet Black 
retained his fear. The fear was never 
realized, and yet he retained it in all 
its force. Black thought it was 
realized once. When he saw Major 
Fife at twilight in the dark walk of 
Beechhurst Dene ; deceived by the re- 
semblance, he mistook him for Robert 
Owen, and he never was undeceived. 

And so the m3"stery attaching to the 
dead master of Harebell Farm, my’^s- 
tery in more way's than one, was 
cleared up at last. Robert Owen had 
slept peacefully in his grave, and had 
never come out of it at all to disturb 
the community. The people connected 
with the Trailing Indian — meaning 
those who were not in the secret and 
shared the popular belief in the ghost — 
might have noticed had they been 
only sufficiently observant, that the 
apparition was never seen save during 
the occasional sojourns of Michael 
Geach at the inn, and not at all after 
his death. Geach once got up a fit of 
terror on his own part. Late one 
night he rushed into the Trailing In- 
dian in a fine state of agitation, and 
told a story to the gaping company of 
having seen the ghost in the lane. 

But the prolonged fear that lay on 
Black, lasting for years and years, w'as 
so entirely devoid of reason, so utterly 
absurd, especially in a man like him, 
as to be almost incredible. It wore 


him to a shadow; it embittered his 
life, it left him no rest, sleeping or 
waking. Could it have been the 
Finger of God that .rested on him, 
working out the man’s punishment ? 
Mary Barber assumed so. 

“ It seems the Lord has been pun- 
ishing you. Black,” she observed com- 
passionately after listening to his con- 
fession of how dreadful his sufferings 
from this terror had been. “ Let us 
hope that He’ll be all the more lenient 
to you now, and hear the quicker your 
groans for pardon.” 


CHAPTER XL. 

WITH SIR DENE. 

Advancing at a jog-trot up Harebell 
Lane, came a horse carrying double ; a 
country yeoman, Charles Parker, (who 
by the way was first cousin to the Parker 
connected with the stolen bag of money) 
on his back, and Miss Emma Geach on 
a pillion behind. In those days it was 
nearly as common to see a horse carry 
two people as one, sometimes it was 
made to carry three. Mr. Parker was 
returning home from the Wednes- 
day’s market at Worcester, whither he 
had conve3md his daughter in the morn- 
ing, and left her there on a visit ; happen- 
ing to overtake Miss Geach on the road 
when returning, he good-naturedly asked 
her to get up and ride. The party had 
nearly reached the Trailing Indian, when 
Mary Barber turned out of the inn, and 
met it. Emma Geach’s loud laugh was 
echoing on the air; a musical laugh 
enough, truth to tell, and well known ; 
otherwise Mary Barber might not have 
recognized her, for the night was rather 
dark. The woman made a motion for 
the horse to be stopped, and spoke. 

“ Halloa, why it’s you, Mrs. Barber !” 
cried the yeoman. “ Good evening 
t’ye.” 

“ Looking for your sweetheart, Mary 
Barber ?” asked free-tongued Miss 
Emma, 

“ If ye’ll get down, girl. I’ll tell ye 
what has happened ; ye’ll see then 
whether this be a time to be looking 
for sweethearts, even for them that’s got 
’em,” was Mary Barber’s answer. 


WITH SIR DENE. 


243 


There was a solemn tone in it that 
struck on the ears of both her listeners, 
and Miss Emma slid otF the pillion to 
the ground. Mary Barber told of the 
accident. To give Emma Geach ' her 
due, she was sobered on the instant, 
and much concerned for Black, 

“ I heerd Haxted tell Black with 
my own ears, tliat the gun warn’t 
charged,” she said explosively. “ What 
did the man mean by’t 

“ It’s what Black said,” replied Mary 
Barber. 

“ Is his hurt bad ?” resumed Emma. 
“ Mr. Parker, I thank ye for giving me 
the lift to-night, and saving me the 
trapes home afoot. The devil take that 
there Haxted 1” she added, preparing to 
hasten into the inn. 

But Mary Barber put out her hand to 
detain the girl, willing to soften the 
shock even to her, and whispered how 
worse than “bad” the hurt was. 

“ ’Tain’t for death, sure I” exclaimed 
Emma, her voice taking a sound of fear. 

“ Ay but it is,’ was Mary Barber’s an- 
swer. No good beating about the bush 
any more, Emma Geach. Black’s dead.” 

“ Dead 1 Dead a’ready.” 

“ About ten minutes ago. Mr. Priar 
and a lot of ’em be there, men and 
women. I couldn’t do no further good, 
and I come away.” 

Very much to Mary Barber’s sur- 
prise, who had deemed her to be with- 
out feeling, the girl burst into a pas- 
sionate flood of tears. All her days. 
Black had been to her but a cross- 
grained master, or whatever he mignt 
be called, and they had lived in perpet- 
ual warfare ; but it seems she bore him 
some natural affection. ^ 

Leaving them to go into the house ; 
for Charles Parker got olf his horse to 
follow ; Mary Barber went on down the 
lane. A project was in her head — that 
she should proceed at once to Beechhurst 
Dene, and request an interview with its 
master. Sundry things disclosed that 
night had surprised her not a little, and 
she felt it to be her “ boundcn duty” (as 
she put it to herself) to disclose them to 
Sir Dene. 

“It’s not too late for T, ” ran her 
thoughts ; “ it can’t be much more than 
half after eight. Poor Black haven’t 
been long a going. The Lord keep us 
ail from a sudden death like his I” 


No ; he had not been long. The 
wound had speedily done its work. 
Only about four hours — hardly so much 
in fact — from the commencement to the 
close. It was a strange coincidence, 
that Mary Barber should have been 
present when both Black and his wife 
were dying, and it haunted her mind. 

“’Twas no chance took me out and 
there this evening,” she murmured. 
“ I wonder how long ’tis since I went 
out for nothing but a walk — without 
having some object to take me ? Why, 
years, it must be. Anyhow, I can’t 
remember it. That feeling o’ wanting 
to go abroad and get fresh air had never 
come to me afore. ’Twas just a good 
angel’s hand guiding me.” 

Arrived at the gate of Bechhurst 
Dene, she stopped; hesitating whether 
to enter then or wait until morning. 
An impulse was strongly prompting her 
to go in, spite of the lateness of the 
hour, spite of her working attire. The 
gown she wore was of lilac cotton, clean, 
but somewhat tumbled with her aidings 
of Black ; her bonnet was the usual 
black poke of a country woman, the cap 
border under it clean and full ; her 
shawl was of fawn-colored cloth, much 
worn. 

“Sir Dene ’ll excuse it all,” decided 
she, opening the smaller gate. “ Gan- 
der ’ll know whether I can ask to see 
him to-night or not.” 

At that moment footsteps were heard 
in the lane, and she wanted to see who 
might be following her. It was Harry 
Cole. Mary Barber leaned her arms 
upon the gate wnile they talked together 
of what had occurred. 

“I never thought his hand was in 
Mr. Owen’s death,” remarked Cole. 
“ Some of you fancied it at the time I 
remember, but I didn’t ; he carried it 
off brazenly.’’ 

“ He told me something else before 
you and Priar come,” observed Mary 
Barber. “ That money lost out o’ Sir 
Dene’s parlor — ’twas Jarvis Clan waring 
took it. Black says he was sure of it.” 

“ So was I,” laconically replied Cole. 

“ You were I Nonsense, man !” 

“Well, I did think ’twas him; I 
thought it was, for certain. That same 
night, just at the very time the money 
must have been taken, I saw Captain 
Clauwaring at Sir Dene’a secretary. 


244 


DENE HOLLOW. 


Oh hwas the Captain : no doubt of 
it.” 

“ And why couldn’t you have opened 
your mouth and said this, Harry Cole ?” 
demanded Mary Barber, hotly. 

“ Because ” I was bid not to, was 

the sentence on Harry Cole’s tongue. 
But he substituted another for it. “ Be- 
cause it was no business of mine.” 

“ No business of yours! ’Twouldhave 
cleared Tom Clanwaring.” 

“ Oh nonsense,” said Cole. “ Nobody 
really suspected Mr. Tom. Well, good 
night, Mrs Barber. This has been a 
sad evening’s work.” 

Sir Dene Clanwaring had almost 
entirely recovered the seizure in De- 
cember, and was himself again. It was 
thought that when the genial weather 
of summer set in, he might be as well 
as ever he had been of late years. 
Meanwhile, by Mr. Briar’s orders, all 
topics likely to excite him were avoided, 
by visitors as well as servants ; so that 
Sir Dene was living in a good deal of 
ignorance as to the doings of his neigh- 
bors. Jarvis Clanwaring he knew all 
about. That gentleman was languish- 
ing away his days in prison (in a rather 
jolly manner, probably after the fashion 
of the day) ; for by no manner of per- 
suasion could Sir Dene be brought to 
release him. Lady Lydia sighed and 
prayed her heart out over it, but Sir 
Dene was wholly deaf; flatly refusing 
to help at all, and calling him to Lady 
Lydia’s face by any name but that of 
gentleman. Sir Dene resented the de- 
ceit practised on the Ardes. That a 
grand-son of his, over head and ears in 
debt, should have palmed himself off as 
an honorable man and attempted to mar- 
ry Mary Arde, brought a blush of shame 
to his old cheeks. He knew all about the 
diamonds too, and had got them home 
again ; having furnished the money to 
Otto for their redemption. Altogether 
Jarvis had done for himself pretty effect- 
ually, and Sir Dene assured Lady Lydia 
that the only fit place for him was the 
prison he was in. Which gave her the 
most intense aggravation. 

“ Can I say a word to Mr. Gander, 
please ?” asked Mary Barber of the ser- 
vant who came to the door 

Gander happened to’ hear the ques- 
tion himself, and came forward. He 
and Mary Barber were great friends. 


“ See Sir Dene ? /es, and welcome,” 
said he in reply to her application. 

“ ’Twill be a bit o’ change for him. 
Dull enough it is for the poor master, a 
sitting up there by himself hour after 
hour.” 

“ Why don’t my lady sit with him ?” 
was Mary Barber’s rejoinder. And 
Gander gave his head a toss. 

“ Sir Dene don’t care to have too 
much of her company 1 She only gets 
worrying of him to loose the captain 
out o’ prison.” 

“ I say I’ve had a rare shock to- 
night,” said Mary Barber, as she and 
Gander ascended the staircase together. 
“Randy Black’s dead.” 

“ No 1” exclaimed the butler. “ Why, 
what has he died of? ’Twas only yes- 
terday I saw him.” 

“ Ay,” she answered. “ His gun 
went off and killed him. I’m a want- 
ing to tell Sir Dene something that he 
said in dying.” 

But that they had reached the baro- 
net’s door. Gander might have asked 
further details and what the something 
was : for he had his share of curiosity. 

Sir Dene was pacing the carpet in 
his sitting room, a favorite exercise of 
his always, and the only one he could 
take now. Mary Barber had not seen 
him for some months ; and the cliange 
age and illness had made in him, per- 
haps trouble also, startled her. His 
once stately form was bent ; he tottered 
as he walked, leaning heavily on his 
stick ; his fine blue eyes were faded ; 
his face was haggard and strangely 
gray. For a moment Mary Barber 
could not speak ; she believed that if 
ever she saw death in a face, she saw 
it in his. Gander shut them in together. 

“ I made bold to come at this late 
hour and ask if I might see you. Sir 
Dene, having a matter to speak of to 
you,” she respectfully said, curtseying. 
“Gander, he thought you’d please to 
see me, sir.” 

Even though it was but Mary Barber, 
Sir Dene in his never-failing courtesy 
of mind laid his hand on a chair near 
the fire, as he might have laid it for a 
lady, and motioned to her to take it. 
His own large arm chair stood opposite ; 
he sat down in it, and bent his head 
towards her leaning both hands on his 
stick. 


WITH SIR DENE. 


2i5 


“ I have heard to-night what has sur- 
prised me, Sir Dene ; and I think you 
ought to hear it too,” she began. “ So 
I stepped here without loss o’ time to 
see if I might get speech of you. And 
I hope, sir, that you’ll be so good as 
pardon my coming before you in my old 
things ; there was no time to go in 
home and change ’em.” 

The probability was that Sir Dene 
had not noticed whether she wore old 
thmgs or new. His sight and senses 
were alike getting dim for these trifles 
of existence. Two wax candles burned 
on the mantle piece, and the fire threw 
out its blaze on every portion of the 
small, comfortable sitting-room. 

“ It don’t matter,” said Sir Dene. 
“The things look good to me.” 

In a low and cautious tone — for 
Gander had warned her not to startle 
his master — she imparted to Sir Dene 
the event of the night. Randy Black’s 
accident and death ; and then went on 
to the items of his confession. 

“Poor Owen! murdered after all!’^ 
interposed Sir Dene. “ But I alway^ 
said that tale of his ghost appearing 
was the most ridiculous in the world. 
Fit only for children and simpletons.” 

“Well, sir, ’twas that drove my 
young master, Mr. William Owen, 
away,” she returned. “ That, and 
naught else.” 

“ So I heard, said Sir Dene. 

“ Squire Arde confided it to me after 
his departure. Had I known ’twas 
that before the ycmng man went, I’d 
have tried to reason him out of his 
foolishness. Ghosts are all nonsense, 
you know, Mrs. Barber.” 

Remembering what she remem- 
bered — the ghost that she most un- 
doubtedly had seen ; ay, and more 
than that one as she fully believed, 
during the experiences of her past life, 
Mary Barber’s opinion was wholly 
different. And she was not one to 
shrink from expressing her opinion, 
even to Sir Dene Clanwaring. 

“ That the spirits of the dead visit 
this world sometimes, there’s little 
doubt on. Sir Dene; but it ain’t given 
to everybody to see ’em. I have seen 
’em and so can speak to’t. I believe in 
dreams, too ; that they come as warn- 
ings, and what not, of things about to 
happen.” 


“ Ay that’s another thing — dreams,” 
readily acquiesced the old man. “ I’ve 
had a queer dream or two myself.” 

The little interruption over, Mary 
Barber went on to the matter she had 
come to relate : That it was not Tom 
Clanwaring who had taken the bag of 
money, but Jarvis Clanwaring. Sir 
Dene who had been scoring the pattern 
of the carpet with his stick (also a 
habit of his) and following it with his 
eyes as he listened, lifted his head sud- 
denly. 

“Jarvis Clanwaring did that?” he 
cried looking at her. 

“ Yes, sir. Black vowed ’twas him 
with his dying breath. Harry Cole, 
too, he confirmed it to me i’ the lane ; 
for he saw the captain at your secre- 
tary.” And she repeated what both 
had said, word for word. It did not 
appear to surprise Sir Dene much. 

“ Look you, Mrs. Barber. That ill- 
doing grandson of mine — that I’m 
ashamed to own and think it a mercy 
his father was not spared to be pained 
by his goings on — was hard up for 
money about that time, and that’s how 
’twas, I expect. For the matter of 
that, I don’t know when he was not 
hard up — as the world has since learnt. 
So he took the bag o’ money, did he ? 
He’s a disgrace to the name of Clan- 
waring.” 

“ But it’s not me that would have in- 
truded to speak of it to you, Sir Dene ; 
I hope I know what respect means 
better than that ” 

“ You are welcome,” interrupted Sir 
Dene. “ He has been the town’s 
talk.” 

“ Only that I thought it my duty, 
sir, to clear poor Mr. Tom,” she con- 
tinued. “ That bag o’ money, sir, you 
know, was laid by some people to Mr. 
Tom’s door.” 

“The people were fools,” was Sir 
Dene’s retort. 

It took Mary Barber aback. She 
had recently felt so fully persuaded that 
it must be the one only matter lying 
against Tom Clanwaring and prevented 
his recall ; for she knew of nothing else 
that could lie. This she said to Sir 
Dene. 

“No, no;” he answered. “My 
grandson, Tom, is a true Clanwaring ; 
no fear of his thieving bags o’ money. 


246 


DENE HOLLOW. 


Why, you ought to know him better 
than that, Mrs. Barber.” 

“ And so I do, sir. When the accu- 
sation was brought against him, my 
bile went up above a bit. I a’most 
got a fit o’ the yalla jaunders. Sir 
Dene.” 

“It’s that other affair up at the 
Trailing Indian, that has been on my 
mind,” said Sir Dene, acknowledging 
more to this woman than he had to 
others ; but reticence sometimes for- 
sakes us at the last. “ The girl has 
left Ireland and is back, I hear.” 

Mary Barber’s hard gray eyes opened 
with a stare. What was Sir Dene 
talking of? 

“Do you mean about Emma Geach, 
sir ?” she asked. 

“ Brazen baggage I” ejaculated Sir 
Dene, “of course I mean it.” 

“ But, sir,” returned the woman, all 
the emphasis she possessed put into her 
tone, “that — that was not Tom Clan- 
waring.” 

“ Was it me, d’ye think ?” reiterated 
Sir Dene, angrily, believing she wanted 
to impose on him in her partizanship 
for Tom. “ It’s not your place to tell 
white lies to me, Mrs. Barber.” 

“ I’ve not told lies, neither white nor 
black, in all my life. Sir Dene, and I’m 
sure I’d not begin now,” said indepen- 
dent Mary Barber. “ The girl’s sweet- 
heart was not Mr. Tom j it was Captain 
Clanwaring.” 

“ Why, what d’ye mean ?” cried Sir 
Dene. 

“ Sir, it’s gospel truth. That was 
Captain Clanwaring. Mr. Tom knew 
naught about it any way. I don’t sup- 
pose he have heard on’t to this day. 
Sir Dene, I thought Squire Arde might 
ha’ told you.” 

The two sat looking at each other. 
She unable to believe that he did not 
know it, fancying his memory must be 
in fault ; he wondering whether he was 
listening to a fable. 

Since the disclosure made by Miss 
Emma Geach, the truth of the affair 
had become public property, what with 
the whispers of one and another, Susan 
Cole included, and had reached the ser- 
vants’ ears at Beechhurst Dene. But 
Mr. Briar’s orders — Don’t say any- 
thing of this or other exciting mat- 
ter to Sir Dene until he shall be strong 


— were very strict, and even Gander had 
not ventured to disobey. 

“Is it possible you have not heard 
that Mr. Tom was cleared o’ that. Sir 
Dene ?” asked Mary Barber, breaking 
the silence. 

“ I have heard nothing,” replied Sir 
Dene. “ What is there to hear ?” 

Letting her ungloved hand, hard and 
warm with work, lie folded in her lap, 
as she sat bolt upright in her chair, 
Mary Barber recounted the facts to 
Sir Dene. She spoke in her usual de- 
liberate manner : and before she was 
well half way through, he got up in 
trembling excitement, and stood facing 
her. 

“ And that sinning reptile could 
suffer the brunt of the scandal to lie on 
my grandson Tom all the while, know- 
ing ’twas him ?” 

“ He did. Sir Dene. Black confessed 
to ’t as well this very night. Don’t ye 
see, sir, if the truth had come out 
’twould have ruined Captain Clanwaring 
with Miss Arde.” 

Sir Dene gave a very hard word to 
Captain Clanwaring, and paced the 
room in tribulation. 

“Poor Mr. Tom have just been a 
scapegoat among ’em — what he was 
always called — and nothing else, sir. 
He have had to take their sins on him- 
self in manhood as well as childhood, 
and work ’em off. And as to his being 
ungrateful to you. Sir Dene,” she con- 
tinued, determined to speak out well, 
now she had the chance, “I don’t give 
credit to a shred on’t. I’ll lay my life, 
that he has writ to you times and again, 
if it could be proved, and the letters 
has never been let get to you. Mr. 
Tom ud desire nothing better than to 
come back, I know: and as to that 
letter you wrote to him a calling 
him home, and Gander posted, rely 
upon’t, sir, • that it never went anigh 
him.” 

.Whether the woman’s decisive asser- 
tions, or the strong good sense that 
shone out in every word she spoke, 
made impression on Sir Dene, certain 
it was, that a conviction of the truth 
took instant possession of his mind. 
The bitter wrong dealt out to Tom 
throughout his life by Lady Lydia and 
her family, seemed to rise up before 
him iu a vivid picture. He sary how 


WITH SIR DENE. 


247 


it had been, quite as surely as if he had 
read it in a mirror : it was as though 
scales had hitherto been before his 
eyes and had suddenly dropped and left 
them clear. All the old love for Tom, 
which had but been suppressed, filled 
his whole being again. He opened his 
heart to Mary Barber as it had never 
been opened to living mortal. 

“ The only child of my dear son 
Geoffry,” he cried from his chair, the 
tears coursing down his cheeks “And 
I have let him live away from me, an 
exile 1 Geolfry left him to me : you 
know he did, Mary Barber : and this 
is how I have kept the trust.” 

The tears gathered in her own eyes, 
hard and cold and gray, as she watched 
the old man’s sorrow. In her homely 
fashion she tried to soothe it. 

. The meeting with him will be all 
the sweeter now. Sir Dene. Don’t 
fret ; ’twas not your fault, sir, but 
theirs that have kept him from the 
place. You needn’t lose no time in 
getting him home, sir.” 

“Fourteen months 1” bewailed Sir 
Dene, apparently catching no comfort 
from her words. “ I’ve counted ’em one 
by one ; him over there, and me here 
alone. Seems to me, Mrs. Barber, that 
my life has been nothing but mistakes 
that it’s too late to remedy.” 

“ There’s not a single life. Sir Dene, 
but what has them mistakes in it ; 
plenty on ’em. Looking back, we see 
’em ; though we couldn’t see ’em at the 
time or should have acted different. 
It’s too late, as you say, sir; we all 
find it so ; too late except for one 
thing — and that’s just taking ’em to the 
Lord for pardon.” 

Sir Dene nodded twice, and passed 
his silk handkerchief over his face. 
Mary Barber was about to rise and 
make her farewell curtsey when he 
resumed. 

“ The worst mistake o’ my life was 
the cutting of that road, Mrs. Barber. 
Dene Hollow.” 

“ Well, sir, if I differed from you that 
it was not, ’twould be just a empty 
compliment, and have no truth in’t,” 
was her straightforward reply. “No- 
body can say the road have answered.” 

“Answered I” echoed Sir Dene, as if 
the word offended him. “Look at what 
it has done for people ; and for me the 


worst of all. But for that accursed 
road, my granddaughter, Margaret, 
would not be in Hurst Leet church- 
yard.” 

“ My poor mother said with her 
dying breath that she saw the shadow 
on it, you know. Sir Dene. She 
thought it was accursed.” 

“ Ay, old Mrs. Barber. I turned 
her out and broke her heart. Did she 
curse the road ?” 

“ No, no. Sir Dene. Had she cursed 
it, the curse might never ha’ come. 
When we leave our wrongs and op- 
pressions to Him — the wrongs that 
bring tears and blood, as ’twere — try- 
ing ourselves to bear ’em patiently, as 
mother tried, it’s Him that sends the 
curse, sir.” 

“ Ay, ay,” returned Sir Dene. “ Ay.” 

In the silence that ensued, Mary 
Barber rose. But again Sir Dene 
spoke ; his eyes lifted up straight into 
hers. 

“I’ve had her on my mind more 
than folks think for, Mrs. Barber. I’ve 
seemed to see her often. Sometimes 
she’s in my dreams. If the time was 
to come over again, I’d cut off this 
right hand rather than take her home 
from her.” 

“ When things be much in our 
mind, we’re apt to dream of ’em. Sir 
Dene.” 

“True. If the dead are permitted 
to know one another up there” — slightly 
lifting his stick to indicate heaven — 
“ I’ll ask her pardon for what I did.” 

“ Oh, Sir Dene ! Don’t fear but what 
’twas all forgiven by her afore she died.” 

“Night and morning I ask God to 
pardon me for it, Mrs. Barber. It won’t 
be long before I’m there now.” 

“ Indeed Sir Dene, I hope you’ll be 
spared to us for awhile yet.” 

“ Not for long,” he reiterated. “ I’ve 
been with Squire ArJe lately — the old 
squire, you understand — we have talked 
with one another as happy as crickets ; 
and I know we are going to be together 
again. Three times ’tis in all ; the 
third time was last night.” 

“ Do you mean in a dream, sir ?” 
she doubtfully questioned, after a short 
pause. 

“ Gander says so. I don’t think it. 
Any way it will not be long before I 
am with him.” 


^48 


DENE HOLLOW. 


“And now I must wisli ye good 
tiijrht, sir,” she resumed, dropping her 
Stiff curtsey. “And I thank you for 
having been pleased to hear me, Sir 
Dene.” 

Sir Dene rose. Bending his weight 
on his stick with the left hand, he held 
out the other. 

“ You will shake hands with me, 
Mrs. Barber ? And you’ll not forget to 
carry in your mind what I’ve said about 
your poor mother ; how I have repented 
all I did with ray whole heart and how 
it has come home to me.” 

He shook her right hand, and held it 
for a minute in his ; not speaking, but 
gazing at her steadily and wistfully. 
Mary Barber felt like a *^sh out of 
water. 

“ 3 Lord give you comfort, Sir 

Dene sht Whispered. “ I thank you 
for cr ,cehding to me. And I trust, 
sir — if you’d not take offence of my 
saying it — that we shall all meet to- 
gether in Heaven.” 

He loosed her hand and turned to 
the bell with a kind of sob. Gander, 
answering the peal, met Mary Barber 
on the stairs. 

“ I say. Gander, why in the world is 
it that nobody has been honest enough 
to clear up Mr. Tom to Sir Dene?” 
she sharply asked. 

“ Clear up Mr. Tom of what ?” re- 
turned Gander. 

“ Why, about that Emma Geach.” 

“Oh — that. Well, Mr. Priar 
stopped it. He said Sir Dene must 
get better first, and then he’d tell him 
himself. ” 

“Mr. Tom has not had much fair 
play among ye, as it seems to me. One 
good thing, Sir Dene knows it now.” 

“ Will ye step in and take a sup of 
anything ?” asked Gander, hospitably 
throwing wide his pantry door, thereby 
displaying its good fire. 

“Me step ini — I’ve not time. 
They’ll have sent all over the parish 
after me at home as ’tis, I expect, 
thinking I be lost. Good night. 
Gander.” 


CHAPTER XLt 

THE ORDERING OP HEAVEN. 

“ Who let the woman in ?” demanded 
Lady Lydia Clanwaring of Gander. 

“ I did, ray lady,” was the butler’s 
answer given equably. 

“And how dared you do it? How 
dared you allow her to go up to Sir 
Dene ?” 

“ There was no reason, that I knew 
of, why she shouldn’t go up. Mrs. 
Barber’s respectable, my lady. Sir 
Dene’s downright glad to ha’ seen her.” 

My lady never got much good from 
Gander. The more impervious she 
was with him, the more indifferent to it 
was he. Next to getting her beloved 
son out of the London prison, the great 
wish of her present days was to get 
Gander out of Beechhurst Dene. And 
yet, she could not really hope to do it. 
Even were Sir Dene to have another 
seizure — ^^a calamity which was expected 
to arrive sooner or later — and becoaie 
utterly incapable of exerting authority, 
even were insensibility to set in, my 
lady could not hope it. For in that 
case, the probability was that the heir, 
Dene, would take up his abode at the 
house as master, and he would be the 
last to suffer the deposal of the old 
serving man. 

“ You take too much upon yourself,” 
retorted ray lady. 

“ I know pretty well when I may 
take things on myself and when I mayn’t’ 
my lady. If I had went up to ray 
master last night, and said Mrs. Barber 
from Harebell farm is a-asking to see 
you, sir, he’d ha’ said show her up 
Gander, show her up. Said it eagerly, 
too.” 

The word struck on Lady Lydia’s 
ears. “ Eagerly I why should he have 
said it eagerly ?” 

“Well, my lady, ’twasn’t long ago that 
Sir Dene told me he should want me to 
fetch Mrs. Barber to him one o’ these 
days ; that he’d like to talk to her a bit 
afore he died. When I heard her voice 
at the door last night, asking to see 
him, the thought crossed my mind that 
her coming had happened just on pur- 
pose.” 

Where was the use of contending — 
of saying more ? None : as Lady 


/ 


THE ORDERING OF HEAVEN. 


2 id 


Lydia felt. The visit had been paid, 
and the harm done ; and all the scolding 
in the world would not undo it now. 

After the departure of Mary Barber, 
Sir Deue said nothing of what he had 
learnt. Gander, who helped him to 
undress, heard no particulars of the in- 
terview — and Sir Dene had grown more 
confidential with Gander than he was 
with any one. On the following morn- 
ing, Thursday, — this day that we are 
writing of — Sir Dene’s bell rang early. 
While eating his breakfast he quietly 
asked Gander wdiy certain matters 
known to all the parish, had been kept 
from him ; from him, whom they most 
concerned. Gander, feeling perhaps a 
little taken aback, did not answer on 
the instant. 

I’d have thought you would have 
told me, Gander, if nobody else was 
honest enough for it,” the old man 
continued in a pained tone. 

“ And my tongue have been a-burn- 
ing to do’t all along, sir,” burst forth 
Gander. “ But Priar, he gave so many 
orders about your being kept quiet, 
that I didn’t dare to.” 

“ But for Mrs. Barber, I might have 
gone into my grave, and never hud my 
best grandson cleared to me I What 
possessed Arde that he could not tell 
me ?” 

“ Squire Arde has got some grudge 
again Mr. Tom, I know,” observed 
shrewd Gander. “ 1 told the squire 
only a week ago ’twas time you heard 
the truth. Sir Dene, but he charged me 
to be still silent.” 

“A pretty nest of conspirators you’ve 
all been against my poor boy I You 
ought to be ashamed of yourself. 
Gander 1” 

“ Sir Dene, next to you there’s 
nobody old Gander cares for like he 
do for Mr. Tom. But when it comes 
to a choice between ye — when it’s his 
interests put again’ yours, meaningyour 
health, why of course his has to go to 
the wall, and always will, sir, with 
me,” added the man stoutly. 

“ Here — move the tray away. I get 
up now.” 

You have not took as much as 
usual, sir.” 

“I’ve had as much as I can eat. I 
want to write a letter.” 

Sir Dene’s hands were flurried j Sir 


Dene’s eyes seemed a little dim ; he 
was longer dressing than ordinary and 
also longer reading his prayer book after 
Gander had left him. About eleven 
o’clock he sat down to his desk at the 
sitting-room fire ; Gander putting every 
article ready to his hand, pen, ink, 
paper; and he began the letter. It 
was the first he had attempted to write 
since his illness, and the progress was 
not satisfactory. His feeble fingers 
could scarcely hold the pen ; the strokes 
were shaky. 

“ My dear Tom ; my dearest grand- 
son.” 

The date and this commencement had 
been accomplished after a fashion, when 
the door was tapped at, and Lady Lydia 
entered. With the custqH;j;.\ry . Inland 
smile on her face, and the f^iVode^ 'tone 
she could subdue her harslf v' » to, 
she was beginning to inquire ai... dear 
Sir Dene’s health and how he had rested; 
but he stopped her in the middle. 

All that he had heard the previous 
night, he repeated to her. It wms Jar- 
vis who had taken the bag of money ; it 
was Jarvis who had given rise to the 
scandal talked of Miss Emma Geach. 
Sir Dene did not enlarge on the iniquity 
in itself ; but he did on the dishonor 
of Jarvis in allowing the odium to fall, 
and rest upon another. He said that 
he was ashamed of him — her son and 
his grandson — to his finger’s ends : 
that so despicable a scoundrel had surely 
never been suffered to trouble the earth 
as Jarvis Clan waring. 

Whether Lady Lydia had known of 
these facts before, whether not, Sir 
Dene could not judge; the revelation 
certainly fell upon her with a shock. 
Her face turned of a ghastly green, her 
spirit for the minute seemed to quail. 
Gathering some courage, she attempted 
to dispute it ; but Sir Dene stopped her 
in the midst. He knew it to be true. 

“ Whence did you hear it she in- 
quired. 

He told her of his interview with Mrs. 
Barber. And then he bade her leave 
him that he might get on with his letter. 

“ Are you writing to Jarvis to re- 
proach him ?” she asked, rising from 
her seat. 

“ I’d not trouble my hands to write 
to him, madam ; writing’s a task for me 
now, I can tell you that,” was Sir Dene’s 


250 


DENE HOLLOW. 


answer. “Heproach A man ca- 

pable 0 ^" acting as he has done would 
but laugh if reproached. 

“ I thought you might be/’ she said, 
more humbly than Lady Lydia had ever 
in her life spoken at Beechhurst Dene. 

“ I am writing to my dear grandson 
Tom, my lady. Trying to tell him how 
keenly his old grandfather feels the 
pain of having doubted him. He’ll not 
lose an hour after he gets the letter, I 
hope • but travel nigh^ and day until he 
gets here.” 

“ That is, you are sending for him 
home 

“I am, my lady. Never again to 
leave it while I last.” 

She quitted the room, carrying her 
mortification with her ; and Sir Dene 
resumed his letter. It made not much 
progress yet. The mind and the slow 
fingers alike grew weary ; and he was 
fain to put it aside when it was half 
written. In the fulness of his repent- 
ance, Sir Dene was writing more than 
he need, considering that he expected 
Tom would ere long be with him. 
Meanwhile Lady Lydia was having it 
out with Gander down stairs, as we 
have seen. Gander was clearly to blame 
for all, she reasoned : had he not given 
admittance to the woman, Mary Bar- 
ber, Sir Dene would have continued to 
live on in happy ignorance. And within 
this last week or two, my lady had quite 
believed she was making some impres- 
sion on Sir Dene on behalf of the incar- 
cerated captain 1 she knew that she 
should never do it now. 

“ I hate Tom Cianwaring, and I wish 
he was dead I” she breathed to herself. 
“ He has stood in my children’s light 
from the first hour I brought them here, 
and found him, a miserable unit, lolling 
on Sir Dene’s knee in his frills and vel- 
vets. Jarvis has been a fool, and played 
his cards badly ; but that other’s an up- 
start interloper, and he shall never come 
home here to stay if I can drive him out.” 

Mr. Friar came in to see Sir Dene. 
He fully confirmed (but it was not nec- 
essary) what Mary Barber had said : 
and then talked for a short while with 
Sir Dene about Black. An inquest was 
called, and would be held on the mor- 
row. Sir Dene relieved his mind by a 
little self-reproach in regard for Tom : 
and Mr. Priar’s answer was, that he had 


always wondered how anybody could 
suspect ill of Tom Cianwaring. 

“I wish I had known it all when 
Arde was here yesterday afternoon !” 
exclaimed Sir»Dene. “I’d have given 
him a bit of my mind. If other folks 
keep things from me, he aught not. 
Tom’s his nephew, in a sort.” 

“ The Ardes are all off this morning 
on their visit,” observed the surgeon. 
“I saw the carriage go by.” 

“ Ay, off to Shropshire for a week or 
so.” 

Mr. Arde with his wife and daugh- 
ter generally paid a visit once a year to 
some relatives of Mrs. Arde’s in the 
adjoining county. That they should 
have happened to have gone now, Sir 
Dene was to-day making a grievance 
of, as it obliged him to keep that “ bit 
of his mind,” intended for the squire un- 
spoken for a season. He little thought 
that he would never speak it. 

“ What about the Trailing Indian ?” 
suddenly questioned Sir Dene. “ Is it 
shut up ?” 

“ Oh dear no ; it’s not shut up,” said 
Mr. Friar. 

“ Who’s keeping it open ?” 

“ Emma Geach. She has got Sara 
Pound and his mother up there for 
company. I’ll look in to-morrow, Sir 
Dene, when the inquest’s over, and 
tell you about it,” added the surgeon, 
rising to depart. “ The chief witnesses 
will be myself and Mary Barber.” 

Sir Dene got to his letter on the fol- 
lowing day. While he was at it Mr. 
Friar came in to tell him the result of 
the inquest, held at the Trailing Indian. 
Accidental death, with a deodand of 
two pounds on the gun. Had it been 
anybody’s gun but Black’s own, the 
jury would have put on five pounds. 
Talking with the doctor he grew 
fatigued, and resumed his letter late in 
the afternoon. As Sir Dene was fold- 
ing it, the same difficulty occurred to 
him that had occurred once before : he 
did not know Tom’s address. 

“ D’ye recollect it, Gander ?” he 
asked, lifting his spectacles to the old 
serving man, who was hovering by the 
table, nearly as much interested in tlie 
letter and in Tom’s recall as his master. 
“ If not you must go to my lady again.” 

“ It’s down stairs, in my pantry. Sir 
Dene. When Mr. Otto was here at 


THE ORDERING OF HEAYEN. 


251 


Cliristmas, I got him to write it down 
in my cellar-book.” 

Sir Dene wrote Tom’s name on the 
letter, and then took off his spectacles 
to ease his face while he waited. Gan- 
der came back with his cellar-book. 

“ The letter can’t go “to-day,” Sir 
Dene. “ ft’s too late.” 

“ Too late, is it. I’ll leave the direc- 
tion and the sealing till to-morrow then. 
I’m tired. Gander. Here ; put it in, 
and lock up the desk.” 

Gander locked the letter inside the 
desk, and gave the key to his master. 
After that. Sir Dene had his dinner, and 
was more silent in the evening than 
usual. 


“ As sure as Fate, she’s dead at last I” 

The exclamation was Gander’s. Sat- 
urday morning was well advanced, and 
the postmap had just left a letter for 
Sir Dene bearing a Scottish postmark. 
It was in a strange handwriting, and 
had an enormous black seal. Gander 
was drawing his own conclusions as be 
carried it up — that Mrs. Clanwaring, 
the heir’s mother, was dead. He gen- 
erally called her by the old name. She 
had continued weak and poorly since 
her illness at Christmas ; but no danger 
had been recently apprehended. Gander 
had liked her always, and was full of 
sorrow accordingly. His master feel- 
ing very weak that day, was remaining 
in bed. 

“ I’m afraid here’s bad news come. 
Sir Dene,” said Gander, going into the 
chamber. “ And I’d have ye be pre- 
pared for’t sir, afore the letter’s opened. 

It ” 

‘•Not from Tom I — anything amiss 
with , Tom ?” tremblingly interrupted 
Sir Dene, catching sight of the great 
black seal. 

“ Tain’t from Ireland at all, sir ; but 
from Scotland. I’m fearing it’s the 
poor dear lady gone at last, sir; Mrs. 
Clanwaring.” 

“ It’s not Dene’s writing 1” cried Sir 
Dene rather in surprise, as he put on 
his spectacles. 

“ No, sir, nor Mr. Charley’s either. 
They’d be too much cut up to write ; 
not a doubt on’t. Both of ’em was 
rare fond o’ their mother.” 

Sir Dene, breaking the seal, fixed his 


eyes on the few lines the letter con- 
tained. It seemed that he could not 
read them. A look of horror stole 
slowly over his face, and he fell back on 
the pillow, motioning to Gander to 
take the letter. 

“ It can’t be 1 it can’t be,” he faintly 
said. “ Look ; look.” 

In surprise and some dread. Gander 
clapped on his own spectacles, to read 
the lines. And when the reading was 
accomplished he was not much less 
overcome than his master. 

Oh, it was grievous news. Not Mrs. 
Clanwaring ; it was not she who had 
died ; but her two brave sons, Dene 
and Charles. They had been drowned 
in one of the Scottish lakes. A pleasure 
party of ten young men, had set sail in 
the brightness of the early spring morn- 
ing, an accident happened, and but two 
of them lived to land again. Dene and 
Charles Clanwaring were among the 
drowned. 

Before Gander could at all recover 
his senses or believe he read arightly, 
all his attention had to be given to his 
master. Sir Dene was exhibiting symp- 
toms of another fit of paralysis. 

“ Good mercy avert it I” ejaculated 
Gander, ringing the bell for help. 
And who on earth’s come now ? That’s 
a travelling chaise a rattling up the 
gravel !” 

Clattering to the door of Beechhurst 
Dene was a rickety post chaise and pair. 
It contained Otto Clanwaring, who had 
travelled down .to Worcester by the 
mail from London. Otto had received 
the account of his cousins’ melancholy 
fate earlier than Sir Dene. Poor Mrs. 
Clanwaring — we may as well call her 
by that name to the end — had been 
mindful of the old man even in the 
midst of her sorrow, and asked Otto to 
go down and break it to him in advance 
of the direct news. The barrister was 
not quite in time, as we have seen. 
Leaping out of the chaise, Otto en- 
countered the scared face of Gander, 

“ What has brought you here, Mr. 
Otto ?” 

“ Sad news. Gander; grievous news,” 
was the answer. “ I have come to 
break it to my grandfather.” 

“ Ye’re too late, then, sir. We had it 
in a letter, and I’m afeard Sir Dene’s a 
going to get another stroke. This 


252 


DENE HOLLOW. 


chaise had better go a galloping off for 
Trial* ” 

“ Priar 1” returned Otto. “ Priar is 
coming up now. I passed him as he 
was turning in at the lodge gates.” 

“Thank goodness for that 1 it’s a 
great mercy,” was the old butler’s an- 
swer as he turned to run up stairs again. 

Too late ; too true. Dene Clanwar- 
ing, the heir apparent to the title and 
the estate of Beechhurst Dene, and his 
brother Charles, his presumptive heir, 
were no more. They had met their 
death by drowning Full of health, and 
spirits, and hopes, and life, their career 
in this world had been suddenly cut 
short in his promise, and they were 
called to meet their Maker. But one 
short week later, had they been spared, 
they would have c jme on a long visit to 
Beechhurst Dene. 

Lady Lydia was as one stunned. 
She had been wearing out her heart 
with futile prayers and wishes for the 
release of her son : but never were the 
wishes so feverishly earnest as now. 
Oh, if her best beloved one, Jarvis, could 
be but there I — if he were but at hand 
to take up the lost heir’s place with his 
grandfather. 

“ Send for him, send for him I” 
moaned Sir Dene faintly— and they 
were the first words he spoke. Lady 
Lydia, Otto, the surgeon, and Gander, 
stood around his bed. The threatening 
stroke kept itself off still : but not, as 
Mr. Priar thought, for long; and Sir 
Dene seemed weak almost unto death. 

“I cannot send for him,” bewailed 
Lady Lydia, in her bewildered state of 
mind, taking the words to be an answer 
to her thoughts, and dropping hot tears. 
“ That is, it’s of no -use my sending, for 
he could not come. Oh Sir Dene, don'^t 
you remember ? He is in a debtor’s 
prison — as I have been telling you every 
day for weeks.” 

Sir Dene looked at her with question- 
ing eyes amid the surrounding silence. 

“ Not he ; not Jarvey,” he said when 
understanding dawned on him. “ I 
don’t want him : you know it my lady. 
I want my own boy, Tom. My heir.” 

“ Tom I” shrieked Lady Lydia. “ Tom 
the heir I Tom !” 

“ Of course he is the heir, mother,” 
put in Otto. “ What are you thinking 
of?” 


It was a positive fact, that the obvi- 
ous and to her most unwelcome truth, 
had never crossed her brain. She re- 
fused to see it now that it was pointed 
out ; and stared around with frightened 
eyes. 

“ Of course it is so,” said Otto, an- 
swering what the eyes seemed to ques- 
tion. “ Tom must come here without 
delay. I wrote to him before I left 
London.” 

“ He never shall come ; he never shall 
be the heir,” hissed my lady in a storm 
of passion. “A low-lived, mischief- 
making, working scapegoat I He the 
heir ? Never. I’ll not recognize him 
as such. I will not allow him to be re- 
ceived at Beechhurst Dene.” 

Perhaps the barrister was not the only 
one in the room who wondered whether 
excitement was temporarily turning 
Lady Lydia’s brain. He caught her 
hand and drew her beyond the hearing 
of the invalid. 

“ Pray exercise your common sense, 
mother,” he quietly said. “ Tom Clan- 
waring is the heir in the sight of man 
and the country : as much the heir as 
was the poor fellow who is gone. A few 
days — I see it in his face,” he whispered, 
indicating Sir Dene — “ nay, more prob- 
ably a few hours, and Tom will not be 
the heir but the master of Beechhurst 
Dene.” 

Gander deemed it well to put a spoke 
in the wheel. “ There haiii’t no power 
that could help Mr. Tom out on’t, my 
lady. He comes in by the rightful law 
o’ succession. The King and all his 
nobles couldn’t do it.” 

Lady Lydia sank down on a chair 
with a low cry; it had despair in its 
depths. Tom Clanwaring the master 1 
Was this to be the. ending? Had she 
schemed and planned and toiled in her 
underhand way all these long years only 
for this ? Even so. For once right had 
been stronger than might, and had come 
out triumphant. 

But Sir Dene was speaking from the 
bed. 

“ It’s a’most as it should be,” he said 
— and they had to bend down to catch 
his accents. “ In the old days I’d use 
to wish my dear son Geoffrey was my 
heir, stead o’ John : just as later I’d 
catch myself wishing ’twas Geoffrey’s 
son stead o’ Dene. For I never loved 


THE NEW MASTER. 


253 


any of ’em as IVe loved Tom. Dene 
was good and dutiful to me, and I loved 
him next best : but Tom I had here as a 
b^ihy, you see, and he grew up in my 
heart. It has pleased the Lord to take 
Dene and Charley on before me to the 
better land — and I hope in His mercy 
we shall soon meet there, and dwell to- 
gether forever I Tom, he has got to 
fulfil Dene’s duties here ; and he’ll do it 
well. It’s not the ordering of man but 
of Heaven.” 


CHAPTER XLII. 

THE NEW MASTER. 

It was a very few days afterwards? 
Another visitor was arriving at Beech- 
hurst Dene. Not thundering up grandly 
in a chaise as Otto had done, but walk- 
ing in all humility and carrying his own 
portmanteau. Not any one so short and 
slight as Otto, this ; but a tall, fine, 
commanding man, his unconscious step, 
the step of a chieftain, and a sweet smile 
on his fair Saxon face. For very blithe- 
ness of heart smiled he, in the joy of 
seeing the dear old familiar places again. 

It was Tom Clan waring. As speedily 
as wind and road could bring him after 
the receipt of Otto’s -letter, he had 
come. And the wind had been strong 
and favorable filling the sails of the 
good ship and sending her to a swift 
haven. Thence on across the country 
by coach : which brought him to within 
a mile of Beechhurst Deue. Otto’s 
summoning letter had been brief and 
somewhat vague. “ Poor Dene and 
Charles are dead, Tom. Come off at 
once to Beechhurst Dene.” 

It had been little more than that. 
In the surprise and shock, Tom really 
knew not what to think. He could 
not picture to himself any possibility so 
bad as that: there must be a mistake 
on Otto’s part, he concluded: his worst 
fears did not point to the death of both. 
But on landing in England a newspaper 
that had the account of it, chanced to 
fall in his way. He learnt that it was 
indeed too true, and that he was the 
next heir to Beechhurst Dene. 

He could not realize it. Never once 
during the whole of his chequered life, 
had so wild an idea entered his imagina- 
tion. The bare fact, that any remote 


contingency existed by which he might 
succeed, had been totally overlooked. 
He, the despised, humiliated waif, who 
had been taught always to regard him- 
self as not fit company for the other 
grandchildren, who had been put upon, 
neglected, made to work and earn his 
bread, he the heir I In truth it was 
next to incredible. Tom himself could 
not fully believe it until it should be 
confirmed by his grandfather : and it 
must be said that any gratification he 
might otherwise have felt at the pros- 
pect was wholly lostsight of in his grief 
for the fate of Dene and Charles. The 
two boys had always liked him : since 
Dene grew up he had stood out well for 
Tom. 

There was no hesitation in his steps 
as he approached the house, but there 
was doubt in his heart. Responding 
instantly to Otto’s peremptory recall, 
from the habit of implicit obedience he 
had been reared in, Tom had not 
received with it any intimation that he 
would be welcome to his grandfather. 
During all the fourteen months of his 
exile, he had never once heard from 
Sir Dene ; had never been told that Sir 
Dene’s anger had turned, or that he 
wanted him home. Otto Clanwaring 
had once written to advise him to come 
and chance it ; but Tom would not do 
that without a summons from Sir Dene. 
Sir Dene had sent him a summons, as 
we know : but my Lady Lydia had 
taken care it did not reach Tom. In 
short, had Ireland been a spot isolated 
from communication with the rest of the 
world, Tom could not have remained 
in much more ignorance of Beechhurst 
Dene and its doings since he left. 

The windows of the lodge were 
closely veiled by their white blinds : 
he noied it as he passed. Generally 
speaking they were gay with children’s 
heads. It was the first corroboration 
his sight had received that his cousins’ 
deaths were real ; and it brought the 
fact home to him. “ Oh Dene I Dene !” 
he groaned in his heart. “ If 1 cuuld but 
see you running dowm the avenue to 
meet me, as you used to do 1” 

At that moment, the death bell rang 
out at Hurst Leet church. Very dis- 
tinctly it came to his ears in the stiil 
spring air. Tom stopped and listened. 

“ It is ringing for Dene and Charles !” 
he softly said with wet. eyelashes. 


254 


DENE HOLLOW. 


Better that I, the friendless waif, had 
gone : than they, rich in all things that 
make life dear I” 

At that time it was the custom for 
the bell to toll an hour night and 
morning, every day between the death 
and the burial. Sometimes when the 
deceased was of high position at midday 
as well. 

But this was not the regular tolling, 
Tom had supposed it to be. It was 
the passing bell. After the three 
times three (for Dene and Charles, two, 
it would have been six times three) 
there rang out a succession of sharp, 
quick strokes ; the indication that a 
soul had just passed to its account. 
As Sir Dene in the years long gone by 
had stood that night in Dene Hollow to 
listen to the passing bell for poor 
Maria, Tom’s pretty mother, so Tom 
stood listening now; but he knew not 
fur whom it was sounding. 

Every window was closed in the 
house; he saw that as he neared it ; 
every one. It looked like what it was — 
a house of the dead. Save that smoke 
was coming out of the chimneys, there 
Was no sign that it had inhabitants. 
As he rang gently at the bell, a favorite 
dog came leaping ’round from the back, 
recognized 'fom, and began to lick his 
hand. 

“ You are glad to see me at any 
rate, Carlo, old fellow I” was his com- 
ment as he stooped to caress the dog. 

“ I wonder whether anybody else will 
be ? I wonder,” ran his thoughts, 

“ whether they will give me house- 
room — let me occupy my poor old bed 
in the garret 

It was Gander who gently drew the 
door open. In his tribulation at what 
had fallen on the house, Gander would 
not nave allowed a footman to open 
that front door lest he might make a 
noise in d ung it. When he saw Tom 
standing there, he stared in utter 
astonishment. 

“ Don’t you know me. Gander?” 

“Know ye, sir 1 But we didn’t 
think you could ha’ got here so soon — 
and a carying of your own portmanta I 
I’m sure I expected to see ye couie in 
a chaise-and-lour.” 

Tom’s hand was in the old man’s, 1 
shaking it heartily. “ I hardly dared 
to come on my feet. Gander,” he said 
in reference to the last remark. “ As 


to chaise-and-four they have been for 
my betters, not for me. Gander,” he 
added, his unconscious pressure of his 
fingers, the feverish eagerness of his 
low tone betraying how much the 
question was to him, “ has my grand- 
father forgiven me ? will he receive me 
kindly ?” 

Gander looked at him. The great 
fact, making havoc of his heart, was so 
intensely real that he was slow to be- 
lieve Tom could be in ignorance of it. 

“ Mercy light upon us, sir I Haven’t 
you heard ? My master’s gone.” 

“ Gone I Gone where ?” 

“He’s dead” burst forth Gander with 
a sob. “Dead, Mr. Tom. And here’s 
asking pardon for calling ye so, for you 
be Sir Tom now.” 

The fresh color was deserting Tom 
Clanvvaring’s face. “I spoke of my 
gi’andfather. Gander,” he said in an 
accent that had in it ever so much of 
dread. “ He cannot be dead ?” 

“He died at midday, Sir Tom. It’s 
barely an hour ago. Yes, sir, it’s true : 
my dear old master is dead and gone.” 

And Tom knew that the passing bell 
had been for Sir Dene. He sat down 
on one of the hall chairs, and burst into 
tears. The shock was sudden and very 
bitter. In his whole life he had never 
been so unmanned ; or his feelings so 
wrung as now. Otto Clan waring, 
coming down the stairs, approached and 
held out his hand. 

“Oh Otto! it seems very cruel. Not 
to have seen him 1 Could you not have 
sent for me in time ?” 

“ It has been so sudden at the last,” 
spoke the barrister. “ When I wrote 
to you from London to come, there was 
nothing the matter with him. He died 
blessing you, Tom. He has charged 
us — me and Gander — with the most 
loving messages for you, the truest and 
teiiderest words.” 

“ But he never recalled me,” returned 
Tom, his heart feeling as if it would 
break with the thought. “I have lived 
always in hope of it.” 

“ He did recall you, Mr. Tom,” spoke 
Gander, forgetting again the new tide. 

“ He wrote months ago, asking you 
to come back to him, and ’twas me 
posted the letter. When the days went 
on, and you didn’t come in answer, Sir 
Dene thought you bore malice, and 
wouldn’t.’^ 


, THE NEW 

did not receive the letter,” sail 
Tom looking alternately at Otto and 
Gander, as if questioning where the 
fault could have been. “ I have written 
to him from time to time, but have 
never had a line from him since I 
left ” 

“ Why — in this last illness he said 
that he had never had a line from you, 
Tom I” exclaimed Otto. 

“ And no more he never did,” as- 
sented Gander. 

“Then who has had the letters?” 
questioned Tom. “ The last I sent was 
at Christmas. I wrote to wu'sh my 
grandfather a happy New Year. I 
wrote to you as w^ell. Gander.” 

“ He never got no letter from yon, 
Mr. Tom; neither him nor me. As to 
who has had ’em, po^imps my lady’ll 
be able to tell,” added bold Gander. 
“It’s her that unlocks the bag.” 

And not one present but knew from 
that moment that the correspondence 
had been suppressed. Tom rose and 
took Up his portmanteau. The action 
shocked Gander ; he quite snatched it 
out of his hand. 

“ I ask your pardon. Sir Tom — a 
chattering here when I ought to be a 
waiting on ye. Here, Jones” — calling 
to a servant at the back of the hall — 
“ carr}^ up Sir Tom’s portmanta.” 

“Is it my old room. Gander?” 

“ Old room returned Gander, 
partly astonished, partly scandalized at 
the question. “ It’s the state rooms 
that have been prepared for ye. Sir 
O'om, level with Sir Dene’s. Be you 
a forgetting who you be, sir ?” 

It seems that Gander at least was 
not going to let him forget. In this 
most unexpected accession to place 
and power, a reminiscence of his famil- 
iarity with Tom in the old days was 
troubling Gander; he had observed to 
him no ceremony whatever — as he 
would have done always to the bar- 
onet’s heir. The fact caused him to 
make more of Sir Tom now. 

Stepping on before up the stairs, his 
body turned sideways in respect, he 
marshalled Tom along the corridor to 
the state rooms, and flung the door 
open to bow him in, Jones and the 
portmanteau bringing up the rear. But 
for his sad heart, Tom would have 
laughed at it. As the two men were 
returning, a door in the middle of the 


MASTER. 255 

passage was unlocked, and Lady Lydia’s 
face showed itself. 

“ What means all these unseemly 
footsteps. Gander ?” she tartly asked. 
“ One would think the whole of you 
were running up and down stairs for a 
wager.” 

“ The young master has just arrived, 
my lady. Jones and me have been a 
conducting of him to his rooms.” 

“ The young master ?” she repeated, 
not catching Gander’s meaning. 

“ The new master, my lady, I sup- 
pose I ought rather to say. Sir Tom 
Clanwaring.” 

It was the first time she had heard 
the title ; the first time she had ever in 
her whole life imagined it. Sir Tom 
Clanwaring ! Staring hard at the ser- 
vants for a minute, like one on whom 
some great awe is falling, she shut the 
door in their faces, and gave vent to a 
low cry of pain in the privacy of her 
chamber. * 

Well, yes. Tom Clanwaring was the 
master of Beechhurst Dene to all in- 
tents and purposes. The new baronet 
of the Realm. One had died ; another 
had succeeded. But that it should be 
this one to succeed, read like a page 
out of a romance. 

During the few days that had inter- 
vened before his death, Sir Dene re- 
mained perfectly sensible. Yery weak 
and feeble ; at times not able to speak ; 
but with all his faculties undimmed. 
He seemed to foresee, to know, that Tom 
would not arrive while he lived ; and 
he charged Otto with all kinds of loving 
messages for him. One of the last things 
he spoke of, was the road. Dene Hol- 
low ; regretting in much distress that 
he had ever made it. This was that 
same morning, not an hour before his 
death. 

“ When I wrote out my testamentary 
paper I thought it would be Dene to 
come in after me, and you see, Otto,” 
he feebly said, “ and I charged him with 
the concern o’ that road, and other 
things. You’ll tell Tom to carry them 
out : it is he who must do it now.” 

“ I will be sure to tell him, grand- 
father,” replied Otto. “Who are your 
executors ?” 

“Eh! Executors? Oh, Tom.” 

“But surely not Tom alone I” re- 
turned the barrister in surprise. 

“ The other was Dene. And he has 


256 


DENE HOLLOW. 


gone before me. The paper is written 
out in duplicate, Otto. One copy will 
be found in the bay parlor ; right hand 
secret drawer o’ the secretaire ; the 
other lies at my lawyer’s in Worcester.” 

As the old man spoke, a thought 
crossed Otto. It was not usual to make 
last testaments in duplicate; had Sir 
Dene done it as a security against fraud ? 
— the possible fraud of his (Otto’s) 
mother and brother ? the barrister bit 
his lips hard, and strove to persuade 
himself that he was wrong in thinking it. 

“ Tom’ll make a better master of 
Beechhurst Dene than any of you; 
better even than Dene would have 
made,” murmured the dying man. 
Just as Geoffry would have made a 
better one than John. Tom’s a gentle- 
man and a Christian : he’ll do his duty 
to heaven as well as to man. There’ll 
be no oppression from him ; wrongs’ll 
be righted ; the poor cared for. God 
bless him ! God reward him for all he 
has done in life for his poor old gra-nd- 
father I God be with him always, his 
Guide and Friend, until He shall land 
him safely on the Eternal Shore !” 

These were the last words heard from 
Sir Dene. He said more to himself, but 
they could not be caught. An hour 
later the stroke that had been waited 
for seized upon him, and in a few min- 
utes he had ceased to exist. 

When Tom came forth from his room, 
the travelling dust washed off, aud his 
coat changed, Otto took him in to see 
Sir Dene. How sore his pain of heart 
was as he gazed down on the beloved old 
face, none save himself would ever 
know. He had so changed in the past 
year, that Tom could scarcely recognize 
him. He would have given a great 
deal to have arrived a day earlier. 
On a small table by the bed lay Sir 
Dene’s watch, chain, ana seals. The 
same chain and seals Tom had played 
with as a child seated on Sir Dene’s 
knee ; the same watch Sir Dene had 
many a time held to his little ear that 
he might note the ticking 

“ They should not lie there, Otto,” he 
said involuntarily. They should be put 
up.” 

“ Yes^ There has been no time to do 
anything yet. Here are the keys,” added 
Otto, holding out the bunch that lay on 
the same small table. “You had better 
take possession of them.” 


“ Why am I to take possession of 
them ?” 

“ Because it is your right. I expect 
itwill be found that all things are left 
in your power. In any case you are 
sole master here.” 

How strangely it sounded in Tom’s 
ear 1 The despised brow-beaten young 
man sole master of Beechhurst Dene I 

“ There’s a letter for you in Sir Dene’s 
desk, I believe,” resumed Otto. “ It 
was the last he ever wrote — indeed, the 
only thing he has written since his first 
illness. Before it could be posted, 
Gander had news of Dene’s death and 
your recall.” 

Tom hastened to get the letter and 
open it. The kind, loving letter — which 
it half broke his heart to read. Sir 
Dene told him in it, that he had never 
in his whole life loved a son or grand- 
son as he had loved him : he told him 
that though he had, through the machi- 
nations of others, banished him for a 
time, he had never in his heart be- 
lieved him in any way unworthy. 

“ The luncheon’s waiting. Sir Tom,” 
whispered Gander, meeting him on the 
stairs. “I’d not let it be served till I 
thought ye were ready; and my lady ’.>< in a 
fine temper. A’most famished, she sa^^s.” 

A flush rose to his fair features as he 
advanced to Lady Lydia in the dining- 
room. She and her aid-de-camp, Dovet, 
had taken counsel together on the un- 
toward state of affairs, and had come to 
the conclusion that nothing remained 
but to make the best of them. So my 
lady, tacitly eating humble pie, met 
Tom with one whole hand stretched 
out, and a smile on her vinegar face. 
Never before had she accorded him more 
than a frown and one finger. 

Force of habit is strong. After Lady 
Lydia had moved to the table, Tom went 
to his old side place, and was about to 
take it. He was pounced upon by Gan- 
der. 

“ What be you a thinking on, Sir 
Tom ? This is your place now.” 

“ This” was the seat at the table’s 
head, formerly Sir Dene’s. One mo- 
ment’s hesitation on Tom’s part and 
then he took it. Took it almost with 
deprecation, the flush deepening on his 
face. And never once, either then or 
later, was Lady Lydia remin..ed by so 
much as a word or look, that his posi- 
tion was phanged from that of yore. 


THE NEW MASTER. 


257 


Sir Dene had rightly summed up Tom: 
“ a true gentleman.” 

Only on this same afternoon had the 
Ardes returned home. The first tid- 
ings that greeted them were — that Sir 
Dene was dead. They could hardly 
believe it to be true : when they had 
quitted home Sir Dene had been so 
well. The squire despatched Mark to 
Beechhiirst Dene to inquire, particulars 
lof the barrister, who he was told was 
down; and waited impatiently, till 
alter his custom, for the man’s return. 
May was with him : and the dusk of 
evening was beginning to draw on. 

“ Here’s Mark, papa,” said May as 
she heard his voice in the Hall. “ He 
seems to have brought some one with 
him. It must be Otto Clanwaring.” 

Not Otto: not his slight figure at 
all ; but a tall, graceful man, he who 
ap})eared when the door was thrown 
open. The squire could see so much, 
as he peered through the dusk at the 
visitor, and at Mark vvho was showing 
him in 

“Sir Tom Clanwaring.” 

“ Wl]o ? What?” cried the squire 
sharply. 

“ Sir Tom Clanwaring, sir,” repeated 
Mark. 

Ay, it was he, the master of Beech- 
hurst Dene. The squire felt something 
like a lunatic in his bewilderment: and 
the pulses of May’s heart went on with 
a rush and a bound. Conscience was 
striking the squire. He had long 
known how entirely worthy Tom Clan- 
waring was: how shamefully he had 
been traduced : but in alarm lest he, 
the despised and penniless, should make 
way with his daughter, he had con- 
tinued to abuse him. And now here he 
wnis, the young chieftain, lord of all. 
Like Lady Lydia, squire Arde was 
very content to eat humble pie. 

“Only to think of it, ISir Tom I — 
that you should have shot up above ’em 
all !” cried he when the first greetings 
had passed. “ I dare say the rest won’t 
get ranch.” 

“ I’ll make it right for everybody as 
far as I can,” replied Tom with his 
warm-hearted smile. “And what about 
myself personally, squire ?” he resumed, 
the smile becoming rather a mischievous 
one. “Am I still regarded as a 
general scapegoat with a peck of sins 
on my shoulders ?” 

16 


Squire Arde’s voice was subdued 
as he answered: his countenance some- 
what crestfallen. “ Tom, I don’t think 
anybody believed aught against you in 
their consciences : even Lady Lydia. 
Sir Dene has wanted yop home all the 
while ; he was never quite the same 
after you left. As to’ that bag of 
money ” 

“ Never mind about the b.u.- ;; 
money,” interrupted Tom. 

“ I was going to say that not lon,:^ 
ago, Harry Cole imparted to me a very 
nasty suspicion as to who it was 'V,;all , 
took it. He saw — sj’w some ore at ..e 
secretary himself that night. V\ nen i 
blew him up for not avowing it, ho said 
you had forbidden him. d you 

know 

“ Never mind,” repeated Tom. “We 
will let bygones be bygones.” 

The squire was not to be put down. 
“ Tom 1 mean to have this out with 
you. Surely you may trust me I The' 
thief was that villanous man Jarvis- 
Clanwaring. Did you know it was him 
at the time ?” 

“ I could not help suspecting it. I 
was not sure. That night, as Sir 
Dene, .refusing to hear me, left me in 
the bay parlor, I flung out at the 
glass doors, 1 fear in a passion, and 
came right upon Jarvis Clanwaring. 
looking in at a corner of the window. 
He murmured some excuse, which I 
did not stay to hear, and he went on 
in. Subseipiently, after I had seen you 
at Bristol, 1 got a letter from Cole, who 
must have been passing the window 
immediately afterwards. It seems. 
Cole took up a notion that I was sus- 
pected, and he wrote to tell me he had 
seen some one else at the secretary. I 
wrote back and silenced him.” 

“ Why on earth did you do that?” 

“Wliat did it matter, sir? I knew 
Sir Dene would never suspect me : no, 
nor other people really ; at least, none 
that I cared for. I would have been 
damaging Jarvis needlessly, you see.” 

“ \Vhat do you mean by needlessly.” 

“ Well, without doing much good to 
me. My best friends would know I 
was not guilty. For the rest, my back 
was a tolerably broad one in those 
days. The appropriating little 
money when I was starting out to 
see the world was but a infling ad- 
dition to its lump.” 


25S 


DENE HOLLOW. 


“ How considerate yon are, Tom I — 
how forgivino; I” 

“ It is rny nature to be so, I think, sir ; 

I don’t take credit for it. People tell me 
it was in iny father’s. Let bygones be by- 
gone in all ways,” he emphatically added 
rising and grasping the squire’s hand. 

“ For my part I mean to believe hence- 
forth that the bag never vanished at 
all. I hope to do all I can for every 
body. I hope to welcome Jarvis to 
Heechhurst Dene for the funeral, if he’d 
^_’ke to come.” 

“ He had better not show his face 
within my doors,” said the squire ex- 
plosively. “Jarvis Clanwaring’s an 
unmitigated scoundrel. As to coming 
to the funeral, there’s no fear of that. 
He is in prison.” 

“ So I find. Otto is about to take 
steps to release him.” 

“ At your cost ?” . ► 

“ It’s hardly to be called that, sir. 
With Sir Dene’s money.” 

There was an interval of silence. Mr. 
Arde’s mind was full. 

“Tom, we have never known you; 
never properly valued you.” 

“Then I ho[te you will value me all 
the more for the future, sir,” answered 
Tom, slightly laughing. “May I see 
Mary ?” he added after a pause, his 
tone serious now and very pointed. 
“ She ran away as I came in.” 

“ Go and look for her my dear boy ; 
go and find her;” was the impulsive 
answer — and it spoke volumes to Tom 
Clanwaring’s ear. “Ah me, how blind 
we have been !” continued Mr. Arde. 
“ I worked against you with her, Tom, 
just as much as the rest did. I hope 
you’d forgive us all.” 

“ You know, sir, we have agreed that 
bygones shall be bygones,” he gently 
said, suppressing his emotion. 

In the adjoining room, cowering be- 
fore the fire on the hearth-rug, hiding 
lier face from the light was Mary. She 
started up as Sir Tom went in ; she 
put up her hands in deprecation of his 
anger. She felt faint in her heart sick- 
ness of shame and repentance. He 
said not a syllable of reproach ; only 
took her in his arms and held her face 
to his. 

“Oh Tom, Tom! I ” 

“ Hush my child ! I will not let you 
breathe a word of excuse to me,” he 
fondly interrupted. “ I know how it 


was. Otto has told me all the truth 
and has not spared his brother. The 
battle against you waged fiercely; you 
were beset on all sides ; you held out as 
long as your strength held out, and 
then yielded in helpless weariness.” 

“No it was not that — the want of 
strength,” she interposed, the hot tears 
streaming from her eyes. “ I could 
have held out always, but for their 
making me believe, — believe things 
against you.” 

“ I know. It is all over now, my 
darling ; and I am here not only to 
claim but to protect you. Look up, 
May ; I must kiss these tears away. 
Y^ou shall never have cause to shed 
more if I can help it.” 

“But so ugly, so common a name — 
Sir Tom 1” exclaimed Mrs. Arde, not 
knowing whether to laugh or cry for 
joy, and trying to get up some griev- 
ance as a set-olf to her gratification. 
Tom had gone away then, and she had 
her daughter to herself. 

“ So is May,” replied that young 
lady, a remnant of the old sauciness 
cropping up. 

“ Nonsense, child 1 Your name is 
not May at all, you know. It is Milli- 
cent Mary.” 

“But I’m never called anything but 
May — hardly. Oh mamma, dear mamma 
— ” and the glad tears again burst 
from her eyes — “ do not let us pretend 
to make troubles ; we have had too 
many real ones to bear. Think how 
good God has been to us I But for that 
blessed snow storm, I should have been 
tied for life to Jarvis Clanwaring!” 

But, after all. Sir Tom Clanwaring 
was not to continue to be Sir Tom. As 
if some instinct or prevision had Iain on 
Sir Dene, it was expressly stated in his 
testamentary paper that should any one 
of his younger grandsons succeed him 
through mishap to his heir, he, the suc- 
cessor, should assume and bear the nau»e 
of Dene. So that Tom had to take en- 
tirely the name of his grandfather, and 
become Sir Dene Clanwaring. 

In this last testament of Sir Dene’s — 
which in truth, though legal was not an 
express will, and was never called such, 
he expressed his regret for having made 
the road. Dene Hollow ; and gave direc- 
tions in the strongest terms that it 
should be forthwith ploughed up ; 


CONCLUSION. 


259 


“for,” ran the paper, “it liad been 
made out of a neighbor’s wrongs, and 
God’s blessing had never rested on it.” 
A good and pretty cottage, better than 
the one formerly pulled down, was left 
to Mary Barber for life — to her own 
unbounded astonishment. 

An income was secured to Lady 
Lydia; the small amount of which, 
small especially in her own idea, nearly 
turned her dumb. Jarvis’s name was 
not as much as mentioned ; Otto had a 
substantial sum of money. Gander had 
a legacy of fifty pounds a year for life. 
And Tom — Tom was left residuary 
legatee. Just as much to his own as- 
tonishment as the cottage was to Mary 
Barber ; for the testamentary paper had 
been written while he was in Ireland 
and ostensibly lying under Sir Dene’s 
displeasure. This, of itself, would have 
made Tom rich for life. Only the en- 
tailed estates, and the contents of 
Beechhurst Dene would have gone to 
the heir. Tom himself was sole heir 
now. 

And, being on the subject of bequests, 
it may as well be mentioned that Mr. 
Kandy Black left a will, afier the man- 
ner of his letters. Towards the last 
years of his life it had been supposed 
that he was poor, living almost from 
hand to mouth upon the scanty profits 
of the Trailing Indian, or upon any less 
legitimate returms he could pick up by 
poaching. It turned out, however, that 
Mr. Randy Black had a few hundred 
pounds in store ; the furniture of the 
inn, old but tolerably substantial, was 
also his. The whole of it without re- 
serve was bequeathed to his “ adopted 
daughter” Emma Geach. 

ISo Miss Emma turned out to be an 
heiress in a small way. 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

CONCLUSION. 

Midsummer day had passed, and 
June was drawing to its close. The 
blue skies were without a cloud, save 
where the sun was setting in its golden 
light; the scent of the lying hay tilled 
the still evening air. Out of doors 
nothing could be more calm and peace- 


ful; within doors, at Arde Hall, all w-is 
bustle, preparation and excitement. For 
on the morrow its daughter was to be- 
come Lady Clanwaring. 

Things at Beechhurst Dene had set- 
tled down into their routine, and Tom 
was as calm and efficient a chieftain’ as 
though he had been born and reared to 
it. Nay, far more so. Brought up in 
the pride and exclusiveness, in the ex- 
pectations pertaining to their position, 
not one of them would have made the 
kind, considerate and thoroughly capa- 
ble master that Tom made. “Tom” to 
his friends still; “Sir Dene” to the 
world. Some people said he would be 
too lenient, too good-heaned, in fact, 
for his own interests. Witness, for in- 
stance, his having grante d a renewal of 
the lea.-'C of the Trailing Indian to .Miss 
Emma Geach I Miss Emma, as bras.^y 
as of old, had presented herself one day 
in the bay parlor where the young Sir 
Dene sat over his papers, and boldly 
asked for it. Would slie be able to get 
a living at it, was Sir Dene’s answering 
questi'ui ; and she said yes, for certain : 
and imparled a little news about her- 
self. She was about to be married to 
Jim Pound. She should keep the inn 
going, and attend to the customers, 
while Jim would go out to his regular 
employment abroad as usual. And she 
intended to conduct the inn respoctab,y, 
she added — and Tom saw she meant it 
— and not have the disreputable charac- 
ters there that Black hud favored. Sh.e 
also proposed, if Sir Dene had no objec- 
tion, to alter the name of the inn to the 
“ Wheatsheaf,” and to have a new sign 
board painted showing a big sheaf of 
corn well gilded. Sir Dene replied^ 
that he had no objection in the world : 
on the contrary he thought the “ Wheat- 
sheaf” carried a more reputable sound 
with it than the “ Trailing Indian.” So 
he gave her the promise of the lease ; 
and he shook hands with her for their 
early fiiendship’s sake, when both were 
little Arabs running about Ilarebeil 
lane, and wished her prosperity with 
all his heart. As Mr. James Pound 
was a hard-working, steady, simple 
young man. who had never had but 
one idea in his head, and that was ad- 
miration of Miss Emma Geach, and 
would be sure to let her be mistress and 
master, Tom considered her prospects 
of domestic felicity were very fair. 


260 


DENE HOLLOW. 


Witness, too, wlint he had done for 
Mary Barber — furnislied the pretty cot- 
tai^e for her in the nicest manner. At 
all this the parish shook its prudent 
liead : clearly the youn<? Sir Dene was 
not sufficiently awake to his own inter- 
ests. 

But, if he was not going in for his 
own particular interests, he undoubt- 
edly was for his people^s love. Ten- 
ants and servants had already found out 
how good he would be to them, how 
implicitly they might trust on his honor 
and generosity. The trials he had un- 
dergone throughout his life had been 
the best possible training for him : 
heaven, foreseeing things that we can- 
not, had no doubt been all the while 
hdiiig Tom Clanwaring for the lot in 
life he was to fulfil. Geolfry’s dying 
prayer for his child’s best welfare had 
been heard. 

Jarvis Clanwaring, released from his 
debts by Otto (acting for Sir Tom) had 
declined to attend his grandfather’s 
funeral : for he had sufficient sense of 
shame not to show'his face again in the 
neighborhood of Hurst Leet. A post 
was obtained for him in India: in which 
he might do well if he chose to be 
steady, even make a fortune in time: 
and he had already sailed for it. Lady 
Lydia had fixed her abode in Lomlon, 
Do vet of course being with her : and 
Tom generously doubled the amqunt of 
income bequeathed to her by Sir Dene. 

The road. Dene Hollow, was a road 
no longer. A ploughed field existed 
where it bad been. Just as that fine 
new highway in the years gone by had 
obliterated all trace of the Widow Bar- 
ber’s house, so the long ploughed field 
now obliterated all ti ace of the highway. 
But the convenience of Hurst Leet and 
its surrounding people was not lost 
sight of. Tom liad talked to Mr. Arde, 
and persuaded that gentleman to allow 
another road to be cut through his 
property. Tom undertaking the ex- 
pense. It was a better site for ir than 
the other; and just where it ought to 
have been made at first. And so, the 
time had gone on to midsummer, and 
the wedding of iSir Dene and Miss Arde 
was fixed for one of these last days of 
June. 

They stood together, he and his be- 
trothed bride, on this their marriage 
eve, in the small side room of Arde ' 


Hall, that had once been the younglady’s 
school and play room. The servants 
were busy laying out the breakfast in 
the dining parlor; Mrs. Arde was in 
the drawing room, putting the finishing 
touches to the vases of flowers; Charlotte 
Scrope, again came to be bridesmaid, 
helping her. Miss May had been wil- 
ful. Not an earthly thing, even ta a 
blessed bit of ribbon, as Susan Cole 
angrily put it, that had been prepai-ed 
for the other wedding, would she let 
serve for this. The attire both for bride 
and bridesmaids had to be bought anew. 
To the last hour of Susan’slife she would 
not cease to grumble at the folly and 
waste. Even now, she had been giving 
Miss May a taste of her opini )n, al- 
though the young lady was by the side 
of her bridegroom so soon to be. 

It was but a shabby little room, but 
the only one free in the house that 
evening. The last rays of the sun 
shone on fheir faces, as they stood side 
by side at the open window, througii 
which the hay sent in its sweetness. 
Still faces, this evening, both, and 
somewhat seriou.s ; but oh with what 
quiet happiness underlying their depib*! ! 
Squire Arde had been watching through 
his spectacles the men at work on the 
new road, but had now betaken himself 
from the room. Susan Cole, a basket 
of ribbon on her arm, a needle and 
thread in her hand, was ostensibly 
making up white favors, and passing in 
and out at will. Susan for some cause 
not explained was in a very explosive 
temper that evening : nearly every 
body she came near being treated to a 
touch of tartness 

“ They are putting up for the night,” 
observed May, alluding to the road 
laborers beyond the side field. 

“And for to-morrow also,” added Sir 
Dene — for old and young, rich and poor 
were on the morrow to rest from labor. 

“ How glad they must be when their 
day’s work’s over,” said May shyly, 
in the reminder. “ They are taking 
away their tools,” 

“Glad to get the work to do, I 
should say,” put in Susan. “Glad 
that folks is found to be at the cost o’ 
new roads and give ’em work.” 

She whisked out of the room again, 
basket on arm, as abruptly as she luui 
just whisked into it. Tom’s blue eyes 
shone with a merry light. 


CONCLUSION. 


261 


The road has never altogether met 
with Susan’s favor,” he said. “ She 
thinks I need not have gone to the 
expense.” 

“ She is getting stingy in everything,” 
returned May, remembering the re- 
proof just tilted at herself about the 
wedding things. “ Tom, do you know, 
I fancy sometimes it’s because she’s — 
rather old.” 

It’s because she likes to stand out 
for her own opinion, May, my love. 
She is not old yet.” 

“ It was quite right to make the 
road ; and to do everything else that 
you are doing. Tom, we shall be 
dreadfully rich. I don’t know how all 
the money will get spent.” 

He shook his head with a smile, 
playing with her browm hair. “ I 
could spend twice as much, May.” 

“ But not on ourselves ?” she said in 
surprise, lifting her eyes to bis. 

“ No, on others.” 

‘‘ There will be enough, Tom. This 
will be ours sometime, you know. 
Who could have thought the two 
properties would ever be united I” 

“ Who would have thought at one 
time. May, that you and I should ever 
be ?” 

“ Who ? — why all along nearly — ” 

She stopped suddenly — with the 
brightest blush. His whole face was 
laughing. 

“ All along what ?” And Miss May 
grew very hot indeed and bit her lips. 

“ All along what. May ? Come. I 
am waiting to hear.” 

Never you mind. Sir Dene. If you 
intend to take me up in this sharp way, 
you had better tell me so beforehand.” 

‘‘ And if I do tell you so ?” 

“ Why then — I am not sure that I’ll 
be married at all.” 

■ “No I That breakfast in the other 
room must be eaten, you know, May.” 

“ I don't know any tiling about it, sir. 
And I think — ” 

What May thought was never 
spoken. An interruption stopped it in 
the shape of Susan Cole again. Fling- 
ing open the door, she put her basket 
and ribbon on the table, and came up 
to them, evidently armed for conflict. 

“Look here,’' she began, “I’m 
a-going to have 'it out. I can’t help 
myself. I shall burst if I don’t. And 
I never thought you’d be either of you 


ungrateful to me — yes. Sir Dene, I’m 
speaking to you as well as to Miss 
May. Since my missis said what she 
did an hour ago, I don’t know whether 
I’ve stood on my head or my heels. 
And I’ve went and cut up all the ribbon 
for the favors into wrong lengths 1 It’s 
not my fault ” 

“Just say what your grievance is, 
Susan,” spolve Sir Dene. 

“I don’t pertend to be one o’ your 
fine stuck-up maids,” went on Susan, 
never seeming to bear him, “and I 
know it’s only reasonable to expect 
that Miss May, about to be my Lady, 
and a-going to London to be showed 
off at the King’s court;*“and that, may 
want one that’s fashionabler. All that 
was understood — that another was to 
be took in my place : and I was 
agreeable. But when ray missis says 
to me just now, when we was a measur- 
ing the wdiite satin together (and I 
lost the measure on’t later): ‘You 
can always come back here, you know, 
Susan, if they should not continue to 
want you at Beechhurst Dene’ you 
might ha’ knocked me down with an 
end o’ the ribbcin. Miss May — Mr. 
Torn — when I hear these things, I 
think it’s time to ask you what footing 
I be upon,” excitedly w’^ent on Susan. 

“ I looked to fill another sort o’ place, 
you see, at Beechhurst Dene, and never 
to be turned out on’t.” 

“I’m sure, Susan, I don’t wish to 
turn you out,” said May quite taken 
aback. “I never .thought of doing it. 
What is the other place you would like 
to fill ?” 

“Why the nurse’s of course. Miss 
May,” returned Susan. 

“ The nurse’s repeated May, not 
taking the meaning. 

“ Yes, Miss May ; nurse. Nurse to . 
the babies when they come.” 

May stared blankly for a moment or 
two ; and then her face turned to a 
crimson flame. 

“ How very absurd you are, Susan I” 

“ Me absurd 1” echoed Susan Cole, 
her own face aflame with anger. 

“ What’s absurd ? I nursed jmu Miss 
Maj" ; I nursed Master Tom here ; 
t’wuuld he a hard thing if I didn’t 
nurse your children.” 

“ So it would,” put in Tom, biting 
his lips hard to kee[) camnienaiice. 

“ In course it would,” repeated Susan 


262 


DENE HOLLOW. 


somewhat mollified by the admission. 
“And me a stopping single for your 
sakes ! I had my sweetliearts in those 
days, and my offers too — as you might 
lia’ seen ’em a dangling after me when 
I’d got you out, if you’d been o-ld enough 
to have sense in your eyes. But I 
didn’t take ’em; I kept to you. First 
one of you in my arms, and a teaching 
of to walk and a keeping of out o’ mis- 
chief ; and then the t’other. A fine time 
on’t I had with you, Aliss May; for of 
all the audacious children you w^ere the 
worst ; Master Tom, he was tractabler. 
Ever since you came home, Sir Dene, 
I’ve looked to nurse your babies ; who 
else has got a right to nurse ’em ? — and 
it’ll be a unjust thing if you don’t let 
me.” 

“ So you shall nurse them, Susan,” 
said Tom laughing. “ I prOiiiise it.” 

Susan gave a satisfied nod, caught up 
her basket of favors, and went away 
again. May was leaning from the win- 
dow then as far as she safely could 
without pitching out. Tom went to 
her ; but she would not turn round. 
He ihouglit he heard a sob. 

“ Why, May I My darling ! What 
is it ?” 

Gently raising her to him, sbe turned 
her face and hid it on his breast. He 
put down his own face and wanted to 
know what the sorrow was. 

“ Not present .sorrow at all,” she 
whispered. “ It is not the first time 
since you came back that I’ve cried for 
happiness. While Susan was grumb- 
ling — and what a stupid thing she is I 
otf tier head, I think — >ome oi the past 
Sorrow flashed into my mind, and I 
began to contrast it witli wlmtis. God 
has been very good to us.” 

“ More than good. May. We will — 
who is this ?” 

Alay was away like a shot, deninrely 
stretching herself beyond the window 
again. The intruder was Otto Clan- 
waring. He had come down to be Sir 
Dene’s best man at the wedding. 

They walked home together arm in 
arm, the two young men, talking soberly 
one with the other. Of tlie crowil ex- 
pected in the church on the morrow ; of 


Mary Barber’s best gray gown and the 
shawl with the border of lilies and rosC', 
that were to be worn at it ; of Hai ry 
Cole’s old mother, who was to be driven 
down by him to the church. Mrs. 
James Pound’s (no longer Miss Emma 
Geach) late smart wedding attire to be 
displayed at it; of Gander’s prominent 
place in the tail of the procession. In 
short of the general satisfactory state of 
all things 

And the stars came out one by one 
in the clear sky, and the whole atmos- 
phere within and without, seemed redo- 
lent of peace. As they went on up the 
avenue and came in sight of Beechhurst 
Dene, its master lifted his hat, his lips 
moving silently. Otto thought Sir 
Dene might be muf’iuuring to himself 
some Words about the warm weather. 
In trutli, the words were very different. 

“ God be thanked for the way he has 
led me since the day I was carried in 
here, an infant waif, my father’s tears 
falling on me I May He ever be with me 
to the end.” 


My friends— in conclusion , dark 

days have embittered the lines of some 
of us, just as they embittered Tom 
Clanwari rig’s. They will dawn for us 
again. Days when we look yearningly 
into the far corners of the wide earth for 
a gleam of comfort, and look in vain ; 
there’s not a ray in the sunless sky, not 
a star in the black over-shadowing 
firmament. But above this dreary 
eai'th, higher than that leaden sky, is 
Heaven. There sits one who sees all 
our cares, notes our oppressions, hears 
our sighs, pities our tears; and who 
will surely in His own good time cau.se 
the darkness to merge away in bright 
and loving light, if we do but patiently 
trust to Him. 

And so a new reign was begun at the 
Dene in all happiness. And Susan 
Cole got the post she fought for. 

But Hurst Leet generally was never 
persuaded out of the belief that Robert 
Owen’s ghost had “ walked.” Only peo- 
ple did not talk much about it abroad, 
as he was grandfather to Sir Dene. 


THE END 


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5 


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Why Did He Marry Her. By Miss Dupuy. 
The Macdermots of Ballycloran. 

I.ost Sir Massinghei d. A Chartning Story. 

T ie Pianter’s Dangiiter. By Miss Dupuy. 
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Ply Son’s Wife. By author of “Mr. Arle.” 
S‘’ainily Pride. By author of “ Pique.’’ 

T re Forsaken Davighter. A Love Story. 
Family Secrets. By author “ Family Pride.” 

F r If-Sacrilice. By author “ Margaret Maitland.” 
Vi»e Dead Secret. By Wilkie Collins. 

'i'he Crossed Path; or Basil. By Wilkie Collins- 
Flirtations in Fashionable Life. 

The Rich Husband. By author of “ Geo. Geith.” 
Coirntry Q,uarters. By Countess Ble.ssiugton. 

A Woman’s Tlioughts about Women. 
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He of Washington. By Mrs. Lasselle. 
•j’ te Woman in Black. A Charming Work. 
High Life In Washington. By Mrs. Lasselle. 
IForem Life in Kgypt and Constantinople. 

'J' iie Rival Belles; or, Life in Washington. 
Hose Douglas. Companion to “ Self-Sacrifice.” 
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The Mateiimaker. By Beatrice Ileynolds. 

The Beautiful Widow. By Mrs. Shelley. 
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The Morrisons. By Mrs Margaret Hosmer. 
Woodburn Grange. By William Howltt; 

Tile Lost Beauty. By Lady of Spanish Court. 
Saratoga. An Indian tale of Frontier Life in 1787. 
Married at Last. By Annie Thomas, 
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Cora Belmont; or, The Sincere Lover. 

Tlie Brotlier’s Secret. By William Godwin. 
Love and Duty. By Mrs. Hubhach. • 

The Lost Love. By author “John Drayton.” 
The Boiiemians of London. By E. M. Whitty, 
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The Lovers’ Trials. By Mrs. Dennison. 

Tiie Q,ueen’s Favorite; or Price of a Crown. 
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Tile Refugee. By Hermann Melville. 

Indi ana. A Love Story. By George Sand. 
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The Little Beauty. A Love Story. By Mrs. Grey. 
The Adopted Heir. By Miss Pardoe. 

Count of Monte Crlsto. By Ab^xauder Dumas. 
Camille ; or. Fate of a Coquette. By Alex. Dumas. 
I.ove and Liberty. By Alexander Dumas. 

Six Nights with tiie Washingtonians. 
The Old Stone Plansion. By C. J. Peterson. 
Kate Aylesford. By Charles J. Peterson. 
Lorrimcr Littlegood's Adventures. 

The Red Court Farm. By Mrs. Heury Wood. 
Dliltlred Arkell. By Mrs. Henry Wood. 

The Earl’s Secret. By Miss Pardoe, 

Lord Montague’s Page. By G. P. R. James. 
Tlie Cavalier. By G. P. R. James, 
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The Conscript. ATsleofWar. By lex. Durnas. 
T he Toit'er of Loudon. By W. M Ainsworth. 
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My steries of Paris; and its Sequel, Gerolstein. 

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Ten Tliousand a Year. By Sami. C. Warren. 

With Illustrations. Price $1.50. 

Wasliington and His Generals. By George 
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The Q,naker City ; or, the Monks of Monk Hall. 

By George Lippard. Price $l..50. 

Blanche of Brandy wine. By George Lippard. 
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Col. J. W. Foriiey'’s Letters from Eit« 
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HANS BREITMANN’S BALLADS. 
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Hans Breitmanu About Town. And other 

New Ballads.” Being the Scco'ud S' liex of JJarts 
BrtibuamT a Ballads." By Charles G. Leland. One 
volume, tinted paper. Price 75 cents. 

Hans Breitmann In Church. And otliei 

New Ballads. Being the “ Third and Last tS>ries of 
Hans Brti(m"niTs Ballads." By Charles G. Leland. 
One volume, tinted paper. Price 75 cents. 

Hans Breitinaiiii’s Ballads. B'mj, Bvlorged^ 
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This new edition of “ Hans Brrifviunn'’s Jkdiuas" mn- 
tains erterything that “ Hans Breitmann" has ever xorit- 
ten. The volume contains “ llan.«! Breitmann’s Party ; 
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and Other Ballads, ’and •' Hans Breitmann iuChurch ; 
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T. A. TROLLOPE’S "WORKS. 
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Leonora Casnloni ; or, The Marriage Secret. 
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6 


T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS’ LIST OF PUBLICATIONS, 


CHARLES LEVER’S NOVELS. 


All neatly done up in paper covers. 

diaries O’Malley, Price 75 cts. 

Harry Lorreqiier, 75 “ 

Tom Burke of Ours, 75 “ 

J^ack Hiutou, tlie Guardsman, ....75 “ 

Artliur O’Leary, 75 “ 

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Coil Cregaii, tile Irlsli Gil Bias, 75 “ 

Davenport Dunn, 75 “ 

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H o r ae e e n^ pie t o n , ......... 1 5 


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Tlie Dead Secret. Complete in one large duo- 
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Hide and Seek. One vol., octavo, paper cover. 

Price 75 cents; or bound in one vol., cloth, for $1.00. 
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THE LIFE OF CHARLES DICKENS. 

BY Dll. 11. SHELTON MACKENZIE, LL.D. 

U is the Best Selling Subscription Book Published. 

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7 


T. B. PETSRSOlSr & BROTHERS’ LIST OF PUBLICATIONS. 


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Cam Hie ; or tlie Fate of a Coquet to. 

Only correct Translation from the Original French. 
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Buried Alive. Price 25 cents. 

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EDITIONS OP 

DICKENS’ WOUKS.' 


CHARLES 


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Thin edition is printed on fine paper, from large, 
e'tar type, leaded, that all can read, containing Two 
Hundred I lustrations on tinted paper, and each book 


is complete in one large duodecimo volume. 

Our iHutuixl Friend, Cloth, $1.50 

Pleltwicli Papers, Clotli, 1.50 

Nicliolas NIckleby, Cloth, 1..50 

Oreat Flxpectatious, Cloth, 1.50 

David Copperfield, Cloth, 1..50 

Oliver Twist, Cloth, 1.50 

Bleak House, Cloth, ].. 50 

A Tale of Two Cities, Cloth, 1..50 

Dickeus’ New Stories, Cloth, 1.50 

littTle Dorrit, Cloth, 1.50 

Doinbey and Sou, Cloth, 1..50 

Cbrisliuas Stories, Cloth, 1.50 

Skc^cbes l>y “Box,” Cloth, 1.50 

Ba ruaby li udge, Cloth, 1.50 

Martin Ciiuxxle wit, Clotti, 1.50 

O'd Curio.sity .Sliop, Cloth, 1.50 

Mystery <»f Fdwin Drood ; and 

illaster Huinpiirey’s Clock, Cloth, 1.50 

American Notes; and Tbe Un- 

cnininercial Traveller, Cloth, 1.50 

Tl»e Holly-Tree Inn ; and otlier 

Stories, Cloth, 1.50 

limited Down; and otlier lie- 
printed Pieces, Cloth, 1.50 


Price of a set, la Black cloth, in 20 voinmes $.30.00 

“ “ Full sheep. Library style 40.00 

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Ihis is the only edition 2>uhlisheii that contains all the 
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The following are each complete in two voinmes. 


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Tale of Two Cities, Cloth, 3.00 

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Oliver Twist, Cloth, 3.00 

Cbristmns Stories, Cloth, 3.00 

Bleak House, Cloth, 3.00 

Sketcbes by “Box,” Cloth, 3.00 

Barnaby Rnd$;e, Cloth, . 3 . 0 'J 

Martin C l» u-/.xleAvlt, Cloth, 3.00 

Old C’m-iosity Sliop, Cloth, 3.(0 

DIttle Dorrit, Cloth. .3 00 

Dombey and Soir, Cloth, 3.W) 

'Jhe following are each complete in one volume. 

Great Expeetat Irnis, Cloth. ].,5T) 

Dickens’ New Stories, Cloth, 1.50 

Mystery of Edxvin Drood; and 

3Iaster Hnmpbrey’s Clock, Cloth, 1.50 

Airrerlenn Note.s ; and Tbe Un- 
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Holly-Ti-ee Inn; otber S( ories,. Cloth, 1.50 
Hunted Down; otber Pbccs,. ...Cloth. 1.50 

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paper, large clear type, and Two Hundred Illustrations 
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somest and best edition ever published for the price. 


CHEAP PAPER COVER EDITION. 


Pickwick Papers 35 

N.cholas Nickleby, 35 

D iinbey and Son 3-5 

David Copperfield, 25 

Marti t) Cbiizzlewit, ''>0\ 

Barnaby Rndge, 25 

Old Curiosity Shop, 25 

Oliver Twist,. 25 

A meric in Notes, 2.5 

Great Kxpectations, 25 

Hard Times, 2.5 

'J'ale of Two Cities, 25 

Somebody’s Luggage,. ...2.5 
Message from the Sea,. ...2.5 


Our Mutual Friend, .35 

Bleak House, .35 

Little Dorrit .35 

Sketches by “ Boz,” 2.5 

Chri.stmas Stories, 25 

The Hauuted House, 25 

Uncommercial Traveller.2.5 
Wreck of Golden Mary,.. 25 
Tom Tiddler’s Ground, ..25 

A House to Let, 26 

Perils English Prisoners, 2-5 
Life of Jo.seph Grimaldi, ..50 

Pic-Nic Papers .50 

No Tlioronghfare, 10 


The Mystery of ildwin Drood. Dickens last work. ...2.5 
Mrs. Lirriper’s Lodgings ; and Mrs. Lirriper’s Legacy,.25 
Mngby Junction ; and Dr. Marigold s Prescriptions,. .•’5 

Hunted Down ; and other Reprinted Pieces, 25 

The Holly-Tree Inn ; and other Stories, 25 


NEW NATIONAL EDITION. 

This is the cheapest hound edition of the works of 
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Pi ice of a set, in Black cloth, in seven volumes... .$20. 00 

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OJix'cr Twist, Cloth, 1.73 

Bleak House, Cloth, 1 75 

Dittle Dorrit, Cletb, 1 75 

Dombey and Son, Cloth, 1 7.5 

Sketcbes by' “ 1?07.,” Cloth, 1 75 

David Copinrtield, Cloth, 1.73 

Barnaby lindfje, Cloth, 1 75 

3Iartin Cliuxxlewlt, Cloth, 1.7.5 

Old Curiosity Shop, Cloth, 1 7.5 

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Dickens’ New Stories, Clotli,! 73 

A Tale of Two Cities, Cloth, 1.73 

American Notes and Pic-Nic Papers. .1.7,5 

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•* “ Half calf, full gilt backs, etc.... 60,00 

THE LIFE OF CHARLES DICKENS. 

Tbe liife of Charles Dickens. "By Dr. J*, 

Sheltnn Mark'ozic^ with a full history of his Li0\, 
hi.s Uncollected Pieros, in Prose and Verse; Per.somil 
Recollections and Anecdote.s: His Last Will in fulli 
and Letters from Mr. Dickens never before p!ihli.«hp<ln. 
With Portrait and Autograph. Price Two DoIIhks. 


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Stories of Waterloo 75 

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Tom Bowling’s Adventures 75 

Guerilla Chief 75 

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Twenty Years After 75 

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Forty-tlve Guardsmen 75 

Life of Robert Bruce 75 

The Gipsy Chief 75 

Massacre of Glencoe 75 

Life of Guy Fawkes 75 

Child of Waterloo 75 

Adventures of Ben Brace 75 

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Following the Drum 50 

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11 


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